JlMldren  of 
he  Desert 


Louis  Dodq 


•ERTRAND  SMITY 

BOOK  STORE 

fACRES  OF  BOOH 

633   MAIN   ST 

I     eiMaNNATl.  OHII 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 


BY   THE    SAME   AUTHOR 


BONIOE  MAY.    Illustrated  by  Reginald  Birch. 

12mo     .    .    .  ^ nei    $1.35 


CHILDREN 
OF  THE  DESERT 


BY 

LOUIS    DODGE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1917 


COPTRIGHT,  1917,  BY 

nTAT?T.F-<;  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  March,  1917 


TO 

THE  FRIENDS  OF  EAGLE  PASS  AND 

PIEDRAS  NEGRAS — IN  THE 

GOOD   OLD  DAYS 


ivi623041 


CONTENTS 

PART  PACK 

I.  Harboro  and  Sylvia i 

II.  The  Time  of  Flame S^ 

III.  Fectnor,  the  People's  Advocate     .    .  loi 

IV.  The  Horse  with  the  Golden  Dapples  179 
V.  A  Wind  from  the  North 213 

VI.  The  Guest-Chamber 245 

VII.  Sylvia 275 


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_   .Jik       ._. _________ 


PART  I 
HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA 


Children  of  the  Desert 

CHAPTER  I 

They  were  married  in  the  little  Episcopal 
church  in  Eagle  Pass  on  a  September  day  in 
the  late  eighties.  The  fact  may  be  verified, 
I  have  no  doubt,  by  any  who  will  take  the 
trouble  to  examine  the  records,  for  the  toy- 
like place  of  worship  still  stands. 

The  church  structure  is  not,  perhaps,  so 
small  as  my  imagination  presents  it  to  me; 
but  I  cannot  see  it  save  with  the  desert  as 
a  background — ^the  desert  austere  and  illim- 
itable. You  reach  the  prim  little  front  door 
by  climbing  a  street  which  runs  parallel  with 
th^  Rio  Grande,  and  the  church  is  almost  the 
last  structure  you  will  pass  before  you  set 
forth  into  a  No-Man's  land  of  sage  and  cactus 
and  yucca  and  mesquite  lying  under  the  blaz- 
ing sun. 

Harboro  his  name  was.  Of  course,  there 
was  a  Christian  name,  but  he  was  known  sim- 
ply as  Harboro  from  Piedras  Negras  to  the 


4  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

City.  She  was  Sylvia  Little.  Sylvia,  people 
called  her,  both  before  and  after  her  marriage. 
The  Little  might  as  well  never  have  belonged 
to  her. 

Although  neither  Harboro  nor  Sylvia  really 
belonged  to  Eagle  Pass,  the  wedding  was  an 
event.  Both  had  become  familiar  figures  in 
the  life  of  the  town  and  were  pretty  well 
known.  Their  wedding  drew  a  large  and  in- 
terested audience.  (I  think  the  theatrical 
phrase  is  justified,  as  perhaps  will  be  seen.) 
Weddings  were  not  common  in  the  little  bor- 
der town,  unless  you  counted  the  mating  of 
young  Mexicans,  who  were  always  made  one 
by  the  priest  in  the  adohe  church  closer  to 
the  river.  Entertainment  of  any  kind  was 
scarce.  But  there  were  other  and  more  sig- 
nificant reasons  why  people  wanted  to  see 
the  bride  and  the  bridegroom,  when  Harboro 
gave  his  name  to  the  woman  of  his  choice. 

The  young  people  belonging  to  some  sort 
of  church  guild  had  decorated  the  church, 
and  special  music  had  been  prepared.  And 
indeed  when  Harboro  and  Sylvia  marched 
up  the  aisle  to  the  strains  of  the  Lohengrin 
march  (the  bridegroom  characteristically  try- 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  5 

ing  to  keep  step,  and  Sylvia  ignoring  the  music 
entirely),  it  was  not  much  to  be  wondered  at 
that  people  craned  their  necks  to  get  the 
best  possible  view.  For  both  Harboro  and 
the  woman  were  in  a  way  extraordinary  in- 
dividuals. 

Harboro  was  forty,  and  seemed  in  certain 
aspects  older  than  that.  He  was  a  big  man, 
well  built,  and  handsome  after  a  fashion.  He 
was  swarthy,  with  dark  eyes  which  seemed 
to  meditate,  if  not  to  dream.  His  hair  was 
raven-black,  and  he  wore  a  heavy  mustache 
which  stopped  just  short  of  being  unduly  con- 
spicuous. It  was  said  of  him  that  he  talked 
little,  but  that  he  listened  keenly.  637^  trade 
he  was  a  railroad  man. 

He  had  been  heard  to  remark  on  one  occa- 
sion that  he  had  begun  as  a  brakeman,  but 
there  were  rumors  of  adventurous  days  be- 
fore he  became  a  member  of  a  train  crew. 
It  was  said  that  he  had  gone  prospecting  into 
Mexico  as  a  youth,  and  that  he  had  spent 
years  working  at  ends  and  odds  of  jobs  about 
mines  and  smelters.  Probably  he  had  hoped 
to  get  into  something  in  a  big  way. 

However,  he  had  finally  turned  to  railroad- 


6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

ing,  and  in  the  course  of  uncertain  events  had 
become  an  engineer.  It  was  a  year  or  two 
after  he  had  attained  this  position  that  he 
had  been  required  to  haul  a  special  train  from 
Torreon  to  Piedras  Negras.  The  General 
Manager  of  the  Mexican  International  Rail- 
road was  on  that  train,  and  he  took  occasion 
to  talk  to  the  engineer.  The  result  pleased 
him  mightily.  In  his  engine  clothes  Harboro 
looked  every  inch  a  man.  There  was  some- 
thing clean  and  level  about  his  personality 
which  couldn't  have  been  hid  under  a  sarape. 
He  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  Gen- 
eral Manager,  making  the  latter  look  like  a 
manikin,  and  talked  about  his  work  and  the 
condition  of  the  road  and  the  rolling  stock. 
He  talked  easily  and  listened  intelligently. 
He  was  grave  in  an  easy  fashion.  He  took 
no  liberties,  cracked  no  jokes. 

The  General  Manager  got  the  idea  that  the 
big  fellow  would  be  a  good  man  to  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  in  larger  events 
than  a  special  trip. 

When  he  got  back  to  headquarters  he  made 
a  casual  inquiry  or  two,  and  discovered  that 
Harboro  wrote  an  exceptionally  good  hand, 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  7 

and  that  he  spelled  correctly.  He  assumed 
that  he  was  an  educated  man — ^though  this 
impression  may  have  been  largely  due  to  the 
fact  that  Harboro  was  keenly  interested  in 
a  great  variety  of  things,  and  had  a  good 
memory. 

The  General  Manager  waited  for  certain 
wheels  to  turn,  and  then  he  sent  for  Harboro 
and  offered  him  a  position  as  chief  clerk  in 
one  of  the  headquarter  departments. 

Harboro  accepted  the  position,  and  said 
"Thank  you,"  and  proved  to  be  uncommonly 
competent. 

The  people  of  Piedras  Negras  took  a  liking 
to  him;  the  women  wanted  to  get  acquainted 
with  him.  He  was  invited  to  places,  and  he 
accepted  the  invitations  without  either  be- 
littling or  magnifying  their  importance.  He 
got  on  rather  well  from  the  beginning. 

The  social  affairs  of  Piedras  Negras  were 
sometimes  on  a  fairly  large  scale.  The  Gen- 
eral Manager  had  his  winter  residence  there 
— a  meticulously  cultivated  demain  which  lay 
like  a  blue  spot  in  a  cloudy  sky.  There  were 
grass  and  palms  and,  immediately  beyond,  the 
vast   desert.     At   night    (on   occasion)   there 


8  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

were  Chinese  lanterns  to  add  their  cheerful 
note  to  pretty  revelries,  while  the  stars  lay- 
low  and  big  over  all  the  desert  expanse. 
The  General  Manager's  wife  had  prominent 
social  affiliations,  and  she  used  to  bring  winter 
guests  from  the  north  and  east — ^from  Chicago 
and  New  York  and  Boston.  There  were  balls 
and  musicales,  and  a  fine  place  for  conversa- 
tion out  on  the  lawn,  with  Mexican  servants 
to  bring  cigars  and  punch,  and  with  Mexican 
fiddlers  to  play  the  national  airs  under  a  fig- 
covered  band-stand. 

The  young  people  from  Eagle  Pass  used  to 
go  over  when  the  General  Manager's  wife 
was  giving  one  of  her  less  formal  affairs. 
They  were  rather  refreshing  types :  the  Texas 
type,  with  a  good  deal  of  freedom  of  action 
and  speech,  once  they  were  drawn  out,  and 
with  plenty  of  vigor.  On  these  occasions 
Eagle  Pass  merged  itself  into  the  Mexican 
town,  and  went  home  late  at  night  over  the 
Rio  Grande  bridge,  and  regarded  life  as  a 
romance. 

These  affairs  and  this  variety  of  people 
interested  Harboro.  He  was  not  to  be  drawn 
out,  people  soon  discovered;   but  he  liked  to 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  9 

sit  on  the  lawn  and  listen  and  take  observa- 
tions. He  was  not  backward,  but  his  tastes 
were  simple.  He  was  seemingly  quite  as  much 
at  ease  in  the  presence  of  a  Chicago  poetess 
with  a  practised — a  somewhat  too  practised 
— laugh  or  a  fellow  employee  risen,  like  him- 
self, to  a  point  where  society  could  see  him. 

In  due  course  Eagle  Pass  gave  an  entertain- 
ment (at  the  Mesquite  Club)  and  invited  cer- 
tain railroad  officials  and  employees  from  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  Harboro  was  included 
among  those  invited,  and  he  put  on  correct 
evening  dress,  and  rode  over  in  a  coach,  and 
became  a  favorite  in  Eagle  Pass.  He  seemed 
rather  big  and  serious  for  complete  assimila- 
tion, but  he  looked  well  with  the  club  settings 
as  a  background,  and  his  name  appeared  later 
in  the  week  in  the  Eagle  Pass  Guide,  in  the 
list  headed  "among  those  present.'' 

All  of  which  he  accepted  without  agitation, 
or  without  ceasing  to  be  Harboro  himself  all 
over. 

He  did  not  meet  Sylvia  Little  at  the  Mes- 
quite Club.  If  you  had  known  Sylvia  and 
the  Mesquite  Club,  you  would  laugh  at  so 
superfluous    a    statement.     Eagle    Pass    was 


lo  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

pleasantly  democratic,  socially,  but  it  could 
not  have  been  expected  to  stand  for  Sylvia. 

People  didn't  know  much  about  her  (to  her 
credit,  at  least)  except  that  she  was  pretty. 
She  was  wonderfully  pretty,  and  in  a  way 
which  was  all  the  more  arresting  when  you 
came  to  consider  her  desert  surroundings. 

She  had  come,  with  her  father,  from  San 
Antonio.  They  had  taken  a  low,  homely  little 
house,  standing  under  its  mesquite-tree,  close 
to  the  government  reservation,  where  the 
flagstaff  stood,  and  the  cannon  boomed  at 
sundown,  and  the  soldiers  walked  their  posts. 
Back  of  the  house  there  was  a  thicket  of  mes- 
quites,  and  through  this  a  path  ran  down  to 
the  river. 

The  first  thing  people  mistrusted  about 
Sylvia  was  her  father.  He  had  no  visible 
means  of  support;  and  if  his  manner  was 
amiable,  his  ways  were  furtive.  He  had  a 
bias  in  favor  of  Mexican  associates,  and 
much  of  his  time  was  spent  down  under 
the  river  bank,  where  a  few  small  wine-shops 
ana  gambling  establishments  still  existed  in 
those  days.  There  were  also  rumors  of  drink- 
ing and  gambling  orgies  in  the  house  under 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  ii 

the  mesquite-tree,  and  people  said  that  many- 
strange  customers  traversed  that  path  through 
the  mesquite,  and  entered  Little's  back  door. 
They  were  soldiers  and  railroad  men,  and 
others  of  a  type  whose  account  in  the  bank 
of  society  nobody  ever  undertakes  to  balance. 
Sylvia  was  thought  to  be  the  torch  which 
attracted  them,  and  it  was  agreed  that  Sylvia's 
father  knew  how  to  persuade  them  to  drink 
copiously  of  beverages  which  they  paid  for 
themselves,  and  to  manipulate  the  cards  to 
his  own  advantage  in  the  games  which  were 
introduced  after  a  sufficient  number  of  drinks 
had  been  served. 

Possibly  a  good  deal  of  this  was  rumor 
rather  than  fact:  an  uncharitable  interpreta- 
tion of  pleasures  which  were  inelegant,  cer- 
tainly, but  possibly  not  quite  vicious.  Still, 
it  seemed  to  be  pretty  well  established  that 
up  to  the  time  of  Sylvia's  marriage  her  father 
never  worked,  and  that  he  always  had  money 
— and  this  condition,  on  any  frontier,  is  al- 
ways regarded  with  mistrust. 

Sylvia's  prettiness  was  of  a  kind  to  make 
your  heart  bleed,  everything  considered.  She 
was  of  a  wistful  type,  with  eager  blue  eyes. 


12  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  lips  which  were  habitually  parted  slightly 
— lips  of  a  deUcate  fulness  and  color.  Her 
hair  was  soft  and  brown,  and  her  cheeks  were 
of  a  faint,  pearly  rosiness.  You  would  never 
have  thought  of  her  as  what  people  of  strictly 
categorical  minds  would  call  a  bad  woman.  I 
think  a  wholly  normal  man  must  have  looked 
upon  her  as  a  child  looks  at  a  heather-bell — 
gladly  and  gratefully,  and  with  a  pleased  amaze- 
ment. She  was  small  and  slight.  Women  of 
the  majordomo  type  must  have  regarded  her 
as  still  a  child.  Her  breasts  were  little,  her 
neck  and  shoulders  delicate,  and  she  had  a 
trick  of  lifting  her  left  hand  to  her  heart  when 
she  was  startled  or  regarded  too  shrewdly,  as 
if  she  had  some  prescient  consciousness  of 
coming  evil. 

She  was  standing  by  her  front  gate  when 
Harboro  first  saw  her — and  when  she  first  saw 
Harboro.  The  front  gate  commanded  an  unob- 
structed view  of  the  desert.  It  was  near  sun- 
down, and  far  across  the  earth's  floor,  which 
looked  somewhat  like  a  wonderful  mosaic  of 
opals  and  jade  at  this  hour,  a  Mexican  goat- 
herd was  driving  his  flock.  That  was  the  only 
sign  of  life  to  be  seen  or  felt,  if  you  except 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  13 

the  noise  of  locusts  in  the  mesquite  near  by 
and  the  spasmodic  progress  of  a  horned  toad 
in  the  sand  outside  Sylvia's  gate. 

Yet  she  was  looking  away  to  the  vibrating 
horizon,  still  as  hot  as  an  oven,  as  yearningly 
as  if  at  any  moment  a  knight  might  ride  over 
the  rim  of  the  desert  to  rescue  her,  or  as  if  a 
brother  were  coming  to  put  an  end  to  the 
existence  of  a  Bluebeard  who,  obviously,  did 
not  exist. 

And  then  Harboro  appeared — not  in  the 
distance,  but  close  at  hand.  He  was  passing 
Sylvia's  gate.  He  had  a  natural  taste  for 
geology,  it  seemed,  and  he  had  chosen  this 
hour  to  walk  out  beyond  Eagle  Pass  to  exam- 
ine the  rock  formations  which  had  been  cast 
up  to  the  surface  of  the  desert  by  prehistoric 
cataclysms. 

He  was  close  enough  to  Sylvia  to  touch  her 
when  her  presence  broke  down  his  abstrac- 
tion and  drew  his  eyes  away  from  whatever 
object  they  had  been  observing  away  on  the 
horizon. 

He  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  startled.  That 
was  a  natural  result  of  Sylvia's  appearance 
here  in  this  withered  place.     She  was  so  deli- 


14  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

cately,  fragilely  abloom.  Her  setting  should 
have  been  some  region  south  of  the  Caucasus. 
Her  period  should  have  been  during  the 
foundations  of  mythology.  She  would  have 
made  you  think  of  Eve. 

And  because  her  hand  went  to  her  heart, 
and  her  lips  parted  tremulously,  Harboro 
stopped.  It  was  as  if  he  felt  he  must  make 
amends.  Yet  his  words  were  the  inevitable 
banalities. 

"You  have  a  fine  view  here/^  he  said. 

"A  fine  view !"  she  echoed,  a  little  incredu- 
lously. It  was  plain  that  she  did  not  agree 
with  him.  "There  is  plenty  of  sun  and  air/* 
she  conceded  after  a  pause. 

He  rested  a  heavy  hand  on  the  fence. 
When  Harboro  stopped  you  never  had  the 
feeling  that  some  of  his  interests  had  gone 
on  ahead  and  were  beckoning  to  him.  He 
was  always  all  there,  as  if  permanently. 

He  regarded  her  intently.  Her  voice  had 
something  of  the  quality  of  the  Trdumerei  in 
it,  and  it  had  affected  him  like  a  violin's 
vibratOy  accompanying  a  death  scene — or  as  a 
litany  might  have  done,  had  he  been  a  re- 
ligious man. 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  15 

"  I  suppose  you  find  it  too  much  the  same, 
one  day  after  another/'  he  suggested,  in  re- 
sponse to  that  mournful  quahty  in  her  voice. 
"You  live  here,  then?" 

She  was  looking  across  the  desert.  Where 
had  the  goatherd  hidden  himself?  She  nodded 
without  bringing  her  glance  to  meet  Har- 
boro's. 

"I  know  a  good  many  of  the  Eagle  Pass 
people.     I've  never  seen  you  before." 

"I  thought  you  must  be  a  stranger,"  she 
replied.  She  brought  her  glance  to  his  face 
now  and  seemed  to  explore  it  affectionately, 
as  one  does  a  new  book  by  a  favorite  author. 
"Fve  never  seen  you  before,  either." 

"  Fve  been  to  several  entertainments  at  the 
Mesquite  Club." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  the  Mesquite  Club.  I've  never 
been  there." 

He  looked  at  her  in  his  steadfast  fashion 
for  a  moment,  and  then  changed  the  subject. 
"You  have  rather  more  than  your  share  of 
shade  here.  I  had  no  idea  there  was  such  a 
pretty  place  in  Eagle  Pass."  He  glanced  at 
the  old  mesquite-tree  in  the  yard.  It  was 
really  quite  a  tree. 


,6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  She  added,  some- 
what falteringly:  "But  it  seems  dreadfully 
lonesome  sometimes." 

(I  do  not  forget  that  path  which  led  from 
Sylvia's  back  door  down  to  the  Rio  Grande, 
nor  the  men  who  traversed  it;  yet  I  believe 
that  she  spoke  from  her  heart,  and  that  her 
words  were  essentially  true.) 

"  Perhaps  you're  not  altogether  at  home  in 
Eagle  Pass:  I  mean,  this  isn't  really  your 
home.?" 

"No.  We  came  from  San  Antonio  a  year 
ago,  my  father  and  I." 

His  glance  wandered  up  the  brick  walk 
to  the  cottage  door,  but  if  Sylvia  perceived 
this  and  knew  it  for  a  hint,  she  did  not  re- 
spond. 

Harboro  thought  of  other  possibilities.  He 
turned  toward  the  desert.  "There,  the  sun's 
dipping  down  beyond  that  red  ridge,"  he  said. 
"  It  will  be  cooler  now.  Won't  you  walk  with 
me  .? — I'm  not  going  far." 

She  smiled  happily.  "I'd  like  to,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

And  so  Sylvia  and  Harboro  walked  to- 
gether out  toward  the   desert.     It  was,   in 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  17 

fact,  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  walks,  all 
taken  quite  as  informally  and  at  about  the 
same  hour  each  day. 


CHAPTER  II 

Some  of  the  cruder  minds  of  Eagle  Pass 
made  a  sorry  jest  over  the  fact  that  nobody 
"gave  the  bride  away"  when  she  went  to 
the  ahar — either  then  or  during  the  brief 
period  of  courtship.  Her  father  went  to  the 
wedding,  of  course;  but  he  was  not  the  kind 
of  person  you  would  expect  to  participate 
conspicuously  In  a  ceremony  of  that  sort. 
He  was  so  decidedly  of  the  black-sheep  type 
that  the  people  who  assumed  management  of 
the  affair  considered  it  only  fair  to  Sylvia 
(and  to  Harboro)  to  keep  him  in  the  back- 
ground. Sylvia  had  never  permitted  Har- 
boro to  come  to  the  house  to  see  her.  She 
had  drawn  a  somewhat  imaginary  figure  in 
lieu  of  a  father  to  present  to  Harboro's  mind's 
eye.  Her  father  (she  said)  was  not  very  well 
and  was  inclined  to  be  disagreeable.  He  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  his  daughter  getting  mar- 
ried. She  was  all  he  had,  and  he  was  fear- 
fully lonesome  at  times. 

Harboro  had  accepted  all  this  readily.  He 
had  asked  no  questions. 

i8 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  19 

And  so  Little  went  to  the  wedding.  He 
went  early  so  that  he  could  get  a  seat  over 
against  the  wall,  where  he  wouldn't  be  too 
conspicuous.  He  looked  decidedly  like  an 
outsider,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  good  many 
people  did  not  recognize  him  as  Sylvia's  father. 
He  was  probably  regarded  as  a  stranger  who 
had  drifted  into  the  church  to  enjoy  the  fa- 
miliar yet  interesting  spectacle  of  a  man  and 
a  maid  bound  together  by  a  rite  which  was 
the  more  interesting  because  it  seemed  so 
ephemeral,  yet  meant  so  much. 

Several  of  the  young  women  of  Eagle  Pass 
had  aided  Sylvia  in  getting  ready  to  meet  her 
husband-to-be  at  the  altar.  They  were  well- 
known  girls,  acting  with  the  aid  (and  in  the 
company)  of  their  mothers.  They  did  not 
admit  even  to  one  another  what  it  was  that 
separated  Sylvia  from  their  world.  Perhaps 
they  did  not  fully  understand.  They  did 
know  that  Sylvia  was  not  one  of  them;  but 
they  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  they  enjoyed  the 
experience  of  arraying  her  as  a  bride  and  of 
constituting,  for  the  moment,  a  pretty  and 
irreproachable  setting  for  her  wistful  person. 
They  were  somewhat  excited,  too.     They  had 


20  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  feeling  that  they  were  helping  to  set  a 
mouse-trap  to  cateh  a  Hon — or  something  Hke 
that. 

And  after  the  wedding  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Har- 
boro  emerged  from  the  church  into  the  clear 
night,  under  the  stars,  and  went  afoot  in  the 
direction  of  their  new  home — an  attractive 
structure  which  Harboro  had  had  erected  on 
what  was  called  the  Quemado  Road. 

A  good  many  of  the  guests  looked  after 
them,  and  then  at  each  other,  but  of  definite 
comment  there  was  mighty  little. 

Sylvia's  father  went  back  to  his  house  alone. 
He  was  not  seen  in  the  Maverick  Bar  that 
night,  nor  for  quite  a  number  of  succeeding 
nights.  He  had  never  had  any  experiences 
in  Eagle  Pass  which  proved  him  to  be  a  cou- 
rageous man — or  to  lack  courage;  but  in  all 
probability  a  sensation  akin  to  fear  bothered 
him  more  or  less  during  those  first  days  and 
nights  after  his  daughter  had  got  married. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for 
Sylvia  if  he  had  brazened  it  out  just  at  that 
time,  for  on  the  very  night  of  the  wedding 
there  was  talk  in  the  Maverick  Bar.  Not 
open   or   general    comment,    certainly.     The 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  21 

border  folk  were  not  loose  of  speech.  But 
two  young  fellows  whose  social  versatility  in- 
cluded membership  in  the  Mesquite  Club,  on 
the  one  side,  and  a  free  and  easy  acquain- 
tance with  habitues  of  the  Maverick  Bar  on 
the  other,  sat  over  against  the  wall  behind  a 
card-table  and  spoke  in  lowered  tones.  They 
pretended  to  be  interested  in  the  usual  move- 
ments of  the  place.  Two  or  three  cowboys 
from  Thompson's  ranch  were  "spending"  and 
pressing  their  hospitality  upon  all  and  sundry. 
A  group  of  soldiers  from  the  post  were  pres- 
ent, and  Jesus  Mendoza,  a  Mexican  who  had 
accumulated  a  competency  by  corralling  his 
inebriated  fellow  countrymen  at  election  times, 
and  knowing  far  more  about  the  ticket  they 
voted  than  they  could  ever  have  learned,  was 
resting  a  spurred  boot  on  the  bar  railing,  and 
looking  through  dreamy  eyes  and  his  own 
cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  at  the  front  door. 
Mendoza  always  created  the  impression  of 
being  interested  in  something  that  was  about 
to  happen,  or  somebody  who  was  about  to 
appear — but  never  in  his  immediate  surround- 
ings. 

"It's  too  bad  somebody  couldn't  have  told 


22  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

him,"  Blanchard,  of  the  Eagle  Pass  bank,  was 
saying  to  the  other  man  behind  the  card- 
table.  The  conversation  had  begun  by  each 
asking  the  other  why  he  wasn't  up  at  the 
wedding. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Dunwoodie,  the  other  man. 
He  was  a  young  lawyer  whose  father  had  re- 
cently died  in  Belfast,  leaving  him  money 
enough  to  quench  a  thirst  which  always 
flourished,  but  which  never  resulted  in  even 
partial  disqualification,  either  for  business  or 
pleasure.  "Yes,  but  Harboro  is  .  .  .  Say, 
Blanchard,  did  you  ever  know  another  chap 
like  Harboro.?" 

"I  can't  say  I  know  him  very  well." 

"Of  course — ^that's  it.  Nobody  does.  He 
won't  let  you." 

"I  don't  see  that,  quite.  I  have  an  Idea 
there  just  isn't  much  to  know.  His  size  and 
good  looks  mislead  you.  He  doesn't  say 
much,  probably  because  he  hasn't  much  to 
say.  I've  never  thought  of  there  being  any 
mystery.  His  behavior  in  this  affair  proves 
that  there  isn't  much  of  the  right  kind  of 
stuff  in  him.  He's  had  every  chance.  The 
railroad  people  pushed  him  right  along  into 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  23 

a  good  thing,  and  the  women  across  the  river 
— the  best  of  them — ^were  nice  to  him.  I  have 
an  idea  the — er — new  Mrs.  Harboro  will  re- 
call some  of  us  to  a  realization  of  a  truth 
which  we're  rather  proud  of  ignoring,  down 
here  on  the  river:  I  mean,  that  we've  no  busi- 
ness asking  people  about  their  antecedents." 

Dunwoodie  shook  his  head.  ''I  figure  it 
out  differently.  I  think  he's  really  a  big 
chap.  He  won  all  the  fellows  over  in  the 
railroad  offices — and  he  was  pushed  over  the 
heads  of  some  of  them  when  he  was  given 
that  chief  clerkship.  And  then  the  way  he's 
got  of  standing  up  to  the  General  Manager 
and  the  other  magnates.  And  you'll  notice 
that  if  you  ever  ask  him  a  question  he'll  give 
you  an  answer  that  sets  you  to  thinking.  He 
seems  to  work  things  out  for  himself.  His 
mind  doesn't  just  run  along  the  channel  of 
traditions.  I  like  him  all  the  better  because 
he's  not  given  to  small  talk.  If  there  was 
anything  worth  while  to  talk  about,  I'll  bet 
you'd  always  find  him  saying  something  worth 
while." 

"You're  right  about  his  not  being  strong 
about  traditions.     There's  the  matter  of  his 


^4  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

marriage.  Maybe  he  knows  all  about  Sylvia 
— and  doesn't  care.  He  must  know  about 
her." 

"  Don't  make  a  mistake  on  that  score.  I've 
seen  them  together.  He  reveres  her.  You 
can  imagine  his  wanting  to  spread  a  cloak 
for  her  at  every  step — as  if  she  were  too  pure 
to  come  into  contact  with  the  earth." 

"'But  good  God,  man!  There's  a  path  to 
her  back  door,  worn  there  by  fellows  who 
would  tremble  like  a  colt  in  the  presence  of  a 
lady." 

Dunwoodie  frowned  whimsically.  *' Don't 
say  a  path.  It  must  be  just  a  trail — a  more 
or  less  indistinct  trail." 

Blanchard  looked  almost  excited.  "It's  a 
path,  I  tell  you!" 

And  then  both  men  laughed  suddenly — 
though  in  Dunwoodie's  laughter  there  was  a 
note  of  deprecation  and  regret. 


CHAPTER  III 

And  so  Harboro  and  Sylvia  went  home  to 
the  house  on  the  Quemado  Road  without 
knowing  that  the  town  had  washed  its  hands 
of  them. 

Harboro  had  made  certain  arrangements 
which  were  characteristic  of  him,  perhaps, 
and  which  nobody  knew  anything  about. 
For  example,  he  had  employed  the  most  pre- 
sentable Mexican  woman  he  could  find,  to 
make  the  house  homelike.  He  had  taken  a 
little  sheaf  of  corn-husks  away  from  her  so 
that  she  could  not  make  any  cigarettes  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  he  had  read  her  a  patient 
lecture  upon  ways  and  means  of  making  a  lot 
of  furniture  look  as  if  it  had  some  direct  re- 
lationship with  human  needs  and  pleasures. 
And  he  had  advised  and  aided  her  in  the  prepa- 
ration of  a  wedding  supper  for  two.  He  had 
ordered  grapes  from  Parras,  and  figs — black 
figs,  a  little  withered,  and  candied  tunas. 
And  there  was  a  roast  of  beef  with  herbs  and 
chili  sauce,  and  enchalades, 

25 


26  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

The  electric  lights  were  turned  on  up 
stairs  and  down  when  they  entered  the  house, 
and  Sylvia  had  an  alarmed  moment  when  she 
pictured  a  lot  of  guests  waiting  for  them. 
But  there  proved  to  be  nobody  in  the  house 
but  just  they  two  and  the  old  Mexican 
woman.     Antonia,  her  name  was. 

Harboro  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
up-stairs  to  the  door  of  her  room.  It  didn't 
occur  to  him  that  Antonia  might  better  have 
attended  to  this  part  of  the  welcoming.  An- 
tonia was  busy,  and  she  was  not  the  sort  of 
person  to  mother  a  bride,  Harboro  thought. 
She  wouldn't  have  been  asked  to  perform  this 
task  in  any  case.  You  would  have  thought 
that  Harboro  was  dealing  with  a  child  rather 
than  a  woman — his  wife.  It  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to 
take  complete  charge  of  her  from  the  begin- 
ning. 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  when  she  entered 
the  bedroom.  There  by  the  bed  was  her 
trunk,  which  she  had  left  at  home.  She 
hadn't  known  anything  about  its  having  been 
transferred  from  one  house  to  the  other. 

"Who  brought  it .?"  she  asked,  startled. 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  27 

"I  sent  for  it,"  explained  Harboro.  "I 
knew  you'd  want  it  the  first  thing." 

"You  didn't  go  to  the  house  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  sent  the  expressman  to  the 
house  and  instructed  him  to  ask  for  your 
things.  I  suppose  he  met  your  father.  It's 
all  right." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  There  was  a 
little  furrow  in  her  forehead.  "Do  you  al- 
ways do  things — that  way  .r"'  she  asked. 

He  didn't  appear  to  understand  what  she 
meant.  He  had  other  things  on  his  mind. 
He  stood  away  from  her,  by  the  door.  "If  I 
were  you  I'd  take  off  that — harness,"  he  said. 
"It  makes  you  look  like  a  picture — or  a  sac- 
rifice. Do  you  know  the  old  Aztec  legends .? 
It  would  be  nicer  for  you  to  look  just  like  a 
little  woman  now.  Put  on  one  of  the  dresses 
you  wore  when  we  walked  together.  How 
does  that  strike  you  ?" 

"Well,  I  will."  She  looked  after  him  as  if 
she  were  a  little  bewildered  as  he  turned  away, 
and  closed  the  door.  She  heard  him  call 
back:  "I'll  see  if  there's  anything  I  can  do 
for  Antonia.  Supper  will  be  ready  when  you 
come  down." 


28  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

It  seemed  to  her  that  his  conduct  was  very 
strange  for  a  lover.  He  was  so  entirely 
matter-of-fact.  Yet  everything  about  him 
seemed  to  be  made  up  of  kindness — to  radiate 
comfort.  She  had  never  known  any  other 
man  like  this,  she  reflected.  And  then  an  un- 
familiar light  dawned  upon  her.  She  had  had 
lovers  before,  certainly;  but  she  realized  now, 
with  a  deep  and  strange  sensation,  that  she 
had  never  really  been  loved  until  Harboro 
came. 

She  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  out  of 
her  wedding-finery.  There  was  a  momentary 
temptation  to  call  for  help.  But  she  thought 
better  of  this,  and  in  the  end  she  came  down- 
stairs like  a  girl,  in  a  light,  clinging  dress  of 
Chinese  silk,  with  a  girdle  and  tassel  at  the 
waist,  and  a  red  ribbon  woven  into  the  throat. 
You  might  have  thought  she  was  seventeen 
or  eighteen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was 
only  twenty-two. 

Harboro  met  her  and  kissed  her,  and  led 
her  to  the  table.  He  had  a  forceful  manner. 
He  was  hungry,  and  it  seemed  that  his  effi- 
ciency extended  to  a  knowledge  of  how  a 
dinner  should  be  served. 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  29 

He  took  his  seat  at  the  end  of  the  table 
where  the  roast  was,  and  the  carving  imple- 
ments. At  Sylvia's  place  there  was  a  per- 
colator, and  the  coffee-cups,  and  the  sugar 
and  cream. 

Antonia,  wizened  and  dark,  came  and  went 
silently.  To  the  people  of  her  race  a  wedding 
means  a  fiesta^  a  village  hubbub,  a  dance,  and 
varying  degrees  of  drunkenness.  She  was  not 
herself  in  this  house  of  a  wedding  supper  for 
two,  and  a  prosaic  attitude  toward  the  one 
event  in  life  when  money  ought  to  be  spent 
freely,  even  in  the  face  of  impending  bank- 
ruptcy. 

But  Harboro  speedily  set  her  at  ease.  They 
were  there  to  eat  their  supper — that  was  all 
there  was  to  it.  He  wasn't  drinking  toasts, 
or  making  love.  He  seemed  thoroughly  con- 
tented; and  it  didn't  occur  to  him,  clearly, 
that  there  was  any  occasion  for  making  a 
noise  or  simulating  an  excitement  which  he 
did  not  feel. 

Antonia  regarded  him  furtively,  from  over 
his  shoulder,  as  she  waited  for  Sylvia's  plate 
with  its  portion  of  the  roast.  He  was  a 
strange  hombre.     Well,  she  had  known  big. 


30  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

quiet  men  before.  They  were  like  rocks.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  a  woman  if  she  stood 
behind  such  a  man  for  protection  as  long  as 
she  remained  quiet;  but  Heaven  help  her  if 
she  ever  undertook  to  beat  him  with  her  fists. 
She  would  only  break  her  hands  and  accom- 
plish nothing  else  whatever. 

Sylvia  was  not  in  a  mood,  seemingly,  to  eat 
very  heartily;  but  Harboro  thought  he  under- 
stood that,  and  he  made  allowances.  He  did 
not  urge  her,  unless  reassuring  tones  and 
comfortable  topics  may  be  said  to  consist  of 
urging. 

He  regarded  her  with  bright  eyes  when  she 
poured  the  coffee;  and  when  her  hands  trem- 
bled he  busied  himself  with  trifles  so  that  he 
would  not  seem  to  notice.  He  produced  a 
cigar  and  cut  the  end  off  with  his  penknife, 
and  lit  it  deliberately. 

Only  once — ^just  before  they  got  up  from 
the  table — did  he  assume  the  role  of  lover. 
He  turned  to  Antonia,  and  with  an  air  of 
pride  and  contentment,  asked  the  old  woman, 
in  her  own  language: 

"Isn't  she  a  beautiful  child  ?" 

Sylvia  was  startled  by  his  manner  of  speak- 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  31 

ing  Spanish.  Everybody  along  the  border 
spoke  the  language  a  little;  but  Harboro's 
wasn't  the  canteen  Spanish  of  most  border 
Americans.  Accent  and  enunciation  were 
singularly  nice  and  distinct.  His  mustache 
bristled  rather  fiercely  over  one  or  two  of 
the  words. 

Antonia  thought  very  highly  of  the  "child/* 
she  admitted.  She  was  bonisimay  and  other 
superlatives. 

And  then  Harboro's  manner  became  rather 
brisk  again.  "Come,  I  want  to  show  you 
the  house/'  he  said,  addressing  his  wife. 

He  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  pride  in  the 
planning  and  construction  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  young  Englishman  in  one  of  the 
shops — a  draftsman — ^who  had  studied  archi- 
tecture in  a  London  office,  and  who  might 
have  been  a  successful  architect  but  for  a 
downfall  which  had  converted  him,  overnight. 
Into  a  remittance-man  and  a  fairly  competent 
employee  of  the  Mexican  International.  And 
this  man  and  Harboro  had  put  their  heads 
together  and  considered  the  local  needs  and 
difficulties,  and  had  finally  planned  a  house 
which  would  withstand  northers  and  lesser 


32  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

sand-storms,  and  the  long  afternoons'  blazing 
sun,  to  the  best  advantage.  A  Httle  garden 
had  been  planned,  too.  There  was  hydrant 
water  in  the  yard.  And  there  was  a  balcony, 
looking  to  the  west,  over  the  garden. 

She  preceded  him  up-stairs. 

"First  I  want  to  show  you  your  own  room,'' 
said  Harboro.  "What  do  you  call  it  .f*  I 
mean  the  room  in  which  the  lady  of  the  house 
sits  and  is  contented." 

I  can't  imagine  what  there  was  in  this  de- 
scription which  gave  Sylvia  a  hint  as  to  his 
meaning,  but  she  said: 

"A  boudoir?" 

And  Harboro  answered  promptly:  "That's 
it!" 

The  boudoir  was  at  the  front  of  the  house, 
up-stairs,  overlooking  the  Quemado  Road.  It 
made  Sylvia's  eyes  glisten.  It  contained  a 
piano,  and  a  rather  tiny  divan  in  russet 
leather,  and  maple-wood  furniture,  and  elec- 
tric fixtures  which  made  you  think  of  little 
mediaeval  lanterns.  But  the  bride  looked  at 
these  things  somewhat  as  if  she  were  inspect- 
ing a  picture,  painted  in  bold  strokes:  as  if 
they  would  become  obscure  if  she  went  too 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  33 

close — as  if  they  couldn't  possibly  be  hers 
to  be  at  home  among. 

It  did  not  appear  that  Harboro  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  the  absence  of  a  spontaneous 
acceptance  on  the  part  of  his  wife.  Perhaps  he 
was  rather  full  of  his  own  pleasure  just  then. 

They  closed  the  door  of  the  boudoir  be- 
hind them  after  they  had  completed  their  in- 
spection, and  at  another  door  Harboro  paused 
impressively. 

"This,"  he  said,  pushing  the  door  open 
wide,  "is  the  guest-chamber.'' 

It  would  have  been  small  wonder  if  Sylvia 
had  felt  suddenly  cold  as  she  crossed  that 
threshold.  Certainly  she  seemed  a  little 
strange  as  she  stood  with  her  back  to  Har- 
boro and  aimlessly  took  in  the  capacious  bed 
and  the  few  other  simple  articles. 

"The  guest-chamber  V'  she  echoed  pres- 
ently, turning  toward  him. 

"We'll  have  guests  occasionally — after  a 
while.  Friends  of  yours  from  San  Antonio, 
perhaps,  or  fellows  I've  known  all  the  way 
from  here  to  the  City.  We  shouldn't  want 
them  to  go  to  a  hotel,  should  we  ?  I  mean,  if 
they  were  people  we  really  cared  for?" 


34  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"I  hadn't  thought/*  she  answered. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out; 
but  the  gray  sands,  pallid  under  the  night  sky, 
did  not  afford  a  soothing  picture.  She  turned 
to  Harboro  almost  as  if  she  were  a  stranger 
to  him.  "Have  you  many  friends?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  no! — not  enough  to  get  in  my  way, 
you  know.  I've  never  had  much  of  a  chance 
for  friendships — not  for  a  good  many  years. 
But  I  ought  to  have  a  better  chance  now. 
I've  thought  you'd  be  able  to  help  me  in  that 
way." 

She  did  not  linger  in  the  room,  and  Harboro 
got  the  idea  that  she  did  not  like  to  think  of 
their  sharing  their  home  with  outsiders.  He 
understood  that,  too.  "  Of  course  we're  going 
to  be  by  ourselves  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
There  shall  not  be  any  guests  until  you  feel 
you'd  like  to  have  them."  Then,  as  her  eyes 
still  harbored  a  shadow,  he  exclaimed  gaily: 
"We'll  pretend  that  we  haven't  any  guest- 
chamber  at  all!"  And  taking  a  bunch  of 
keys  from  his  pocket  he  locked  the  door  with 
a  decisive  movement. 

On  the  way  down  the  hall  they  passed  their 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  35 

bedroom.  "This  room  you've  seen,"  he  said, 
"our  room.  But  you  have  not  seen  the  bal- 
cony yet." 

He  was  plainly  confident  that  the  balcony 
would  make  a  pleasant  impression  upon  her. 
He  opened  yet  another  door,  and  they  stepped 
out  under  the  night  sky. 

The  thing  had  been  planned  with  certain 
poetic  or  romantic  values  in  mind.  Standing 
on  the  balcony  you  were  looking  toward  the 
Rio  Grande — and  Mexico.  And  you  seemed 
pretty  high.  There  was  the  dull  silver  of  the 
river,  and  the  line  of  lights  along  the  bridge, 
and  beyond  the  huddled,  dark  structures  of 
Piedras  Negras.  You  might  have  imagined 
yourself  on  the  deck  of  a  Mediterranean 
steamer,  looking  at  a  town  in  Algeria  or  Tunis. 
And  beyond,  under  the  low-hanging  stars, 
was  the  Mexican  desert — a  blank  page,  with 
only  here  and  there  the  obscurity  of  a  garden, 
or  a  hacienduy  or  a  mere  speck  which  would 
be  a  lonely  casa  built  of  earth. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  asked.  He  had 
seated  himself  with  a  sigh  of  contentment. 
His  outstretched  arms  lay  along  the  back  of 
the  settee,  and  he  was  looking  at  her  eagerly. 


36  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Yes,  she  said,  it  was  nice.  ...  "It  is 
strange  that  he  should  be  thinking  of  the 
view  just  now,"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 
A  painful  turmoil  raged  within  her;  but  out- 
wardly she  was  so  calm  that  Harboro  was 
puzzled.  To  him,  too,  that  view  became  a 
negative  thing  for  the  moment.  "I  suspect 
that  house  down  under  the  mesquite-tree  was 
a  bit  shabby,"  he  was  thinking.  "She's  op- 
pressed by  so  many  new  things."  He  gave 
her  time  to  find  her  bearings.  That  was  a 
thing  she  would  do  better  by  being  left 
alone. 

And  out  of  the  chaos  in  Sylvia's  mind  there 
came  the  clear  realization  that  Harboro  was 
not  living  for  the  moment,  but  that  he  was 
looking  forward,  planning  for  a  lifetime,  and 
not  for  a  swift,  passing  storm  of  passion. 
There  was  something  static  in  his  nature; 
there  was  a  stability  in  the  house  he  had  pro- 
vided and  furnished.  Her  experiences  with 
him  were  not  to  be  like  a  flame:  sanctioned, 
yet  in  all  other  respects  like  other  experiences 
she  had  had  in  the  past. 

The  silence  between  them  had  become  un- 
comfortable— inappropriate;  and  Harboro  put 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  37 

a  gentle  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  closer 
to  him.     "Sit  down  by  me/'  he  said. 

He  was  dismayed  by  the  result  of  that  per- 
suasive movement.  The  hand  he  had  taken 
into  his  trembled,  and  she  would  not  yield  to 
the  pressure  of  his  arm.  She  hung  her  head 
as  if  desolate  memories  were  crowding  be- 
tween him  and  her,  and  he  saw  that  moisture 
glistened  in  her  eyes. 

"Eh?"  he  inquired  huskily,  "you're  not 
afraid  of  me  ?" 

She  allowed  him  to  draw  her  closer,  and  he 
felt  the  negative  movement  of  her  head  as  it 
lay  on  his  shoulder;  but  he  knew  that  she 
was  afraid,  though  he  did  not  gauge  the 
quality  of  her  fear.  "You  mustn't  be  afraid, 
you  know."  He  continued  the  pressure  of 
his  arm  until  she  seemed  to  relax  wholly 
against  him.  He  felt  a  delicious  sense  of 
conquest  over  her  by  sympathy  and  gentle- 
ness. He  was  eager  for  that  moment  to 
pass,  though  he  held  it  precious  and  knew 
that  it  would  never  return  again.  Then  he 
felt  her  body  tremble  as  it  lay  against  his. 

"That  won't  do!"  he  chided  gently. 
"Look!"    He  stood  her  on  her  feet  before 


38  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

him,  and  took  her  arms  at  the  elbows,  pinion- 
ing them  carefully  to  her  sides.  Then  he 
slowly  lifted  her  above  him,  so  that  he  had 
to  raise  his  face  to  look  into  hers.  The  act 
was  performed  as  if  it  were  a  rite. 

"You  mean  ...  I  am  helpless.?"  She 
checked  the  manifestation  of  grief  as  abruptly 
as  a  child  does  when  its  mind  has  been  swiftly 
diverted. 

"  God  bless  me,  no !  I  mean  anything  but 
that.  That's  just  what  I  dont  mean.  I 
mean  that  you're  to  have  all  the  help  you 
want — that  you're  to  look  to  me  for  your 
strength,  that  you  are  to  put  your  burdens 
on  me."  He  placed  her  on  the  seat  beside 
him  and  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  his. 
"There,  now,  we'll  talk.  You  see,  we're  one, 
you  and  I.  That  isn't  just  a  saying  of  the 
preachers.  It's  a  fact.  I  couldn't  harm  you 
without  harming  myself.  Don't  you  see  that  1 
Nobody  could  harm  you  without  harming  me, 
too." 

He  did  not  notice  that  her  hand  stiffened 
in  his  at  those  words. 

"When  we've  been  together  awhile  we'll 
both  realize  in  wonderful  ways  what  it  means 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  39 

really  to  be  united.  When  you've  laid  your 
head  on  my  shoulder  a  great  many  times,  or 
against  my  heart,  the  very  blood  in  my  veins 
will  be  the  blood  in  your  veins.  I  can't  ex- 
plain it.  It  goes  beyond  physiology.  We'll 
belong  to  each  other  so  completely  that 
wherever  you  go  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  when 
I  go  to  work  I  shall  have  only  to  put  my 
hand  on  my  breast  to  touch  you.  I'll  get 
my  strength  from  you,  and  it  shall  be  yours 
again  in  return.  There,  those  are  things 
which  will  come  to  us  little  by  little.  But 
you  must  never  be  afraid." 

I  would  rather  not  even  try  to  surmise 
what  was  in  Sylvia's  mind  when,  following 
those  words  of  his,  she  swiftly  took  his  face 
in  her  hands  with  unsuspected  strength  and 
hungrily  kissed  him.  But  Harboro  read  no 
dark  meaning  into  the  caress.  It  seemed  to 
him  the  natural  thing  for  her  to  do. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Harboro  adopted  the  plan,  immediately 
after  his  marriage,  of  walking  to  his  work  in 
the  morning  and  back  to  his  home  in  the 
evening.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  mile  or 
so,  and  if  you  kept  out  of  the  sun  of  midday, 
it  was  a  pleasant  enough  form  of  exercise. 
Indeed,  in  the  morning  it  was  the  sort  of 
thing  a  man  of  varied  experiences  might  have 
been  expected  to  enjoy:  the  walk  through 
Eagle  Pass,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  Dolch  hotel 
bus  going  to  meet  the  early  train  from  Spof- 
ford  Junction,  and  a  friendly  greeting  from 
an  occasional  merchant,  and  then  the  breezy 
passage  across  the  Rio  Grande  bridge,  span- 
ning the  meandering  waters  which  never 
bore  vessels  of  any  sort  to  the  far-off  sea, 
and  finally  the  negotiation  of  the  narrow 
street  in  Piedras  Negras,  past  the  plaza  and 
the  bull-ring,  and  countless  little  wine-shops, 
and  the  market,  with  its  attractively  dis- 
played  fruits    and  vegetables   from   nobody 

knew  where. 

40 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  41 

But  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  his  practice 
of  making  this  journey  to  and  fro  afoot  was 
not  without  its  prejudicial  result.  The  peo- 
ple of  quality  of  either  side  of  the  river  rarely 
ever  set  foot  on  the  bridge,  or  on  those  mal- 
odorous streets  of  Piedras  Negras  which  lay 
near  the  river.  Such  people  employed  a 
cochero  and  drove,  quite  in  the  European 
style,  when  business  or  pleasure  drew  them 
from  their  homes.  There  was  an  almost 
continuous  stream  of  peones  on  the  bridge 
in  the  mornings  and  evenings:  silent,  furtive 
people,  watched  closely  by  the  customs  guard, 
whose  duties  required  him  on  occasion  to  ex- 
amine a  suspicious-appearing  Mexican  with 
decidedly  indelicate  thoroughness.  And  all 
this  did  not  tend  to  make  the  bridge  a  popu- 
lar promenade. 

But  Harboro  was  not  squeamish,  nor  did 
he  entertain  slavish  thoughts  of  how  people 
would  feel  over  a  disregarded  custom.  He 
liked  simplicity,  and  moreover  he  felt  the 
need  of  exercise  now  that  his  work  kept  him 
inactive  most  of  the  time.  He  was  at  an 
age  when  men  take  on  flesh  easily. 

Nevertheless,  people  weren't  favorably  im- 


42  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

pressed  when  they  looked  down  from  their 
old-fashioned  equipages  on  their  ride  between 
the  two  republics,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  chief  clerk  marching  along  the  bridge 
railing — often,  as  likely  as  not,  in  company 
with  some  chance  laborer  or  wanderer,  whose 
garb  clearly  indicated  his  lowly  estate. 

And  when,  finally,  Harboro  persuaded  Syl- 
via to  accompany  him  on  one  of  these  walks  of 
his,  the  limits  of  his  eccentricity  were  thought 
to  have  been  reached.  Indeed,  not  a  few 
people,  who  might  have  been  induced  to 
forget  that  his  marriage  had  been  a  scandal- 
ous one,  were  inclined  for  the  first  time  to 
condemn  him  utterly  when  he  required  the 
two  towns  to  contemplate  him  in  company 
with  the  woman  he  had  married,  both  of 
them  running  counter  to  all  the  conventions. 

The  reason  for  this  trip  of  Harboro's  and 
Sylvia's  was  that  Harboro  wanted  Sylvia  to 
have  a  new  dress  for  a  special  occasion. 

It  happened  that  two  or  three  weeks  after 
his  marriage  Harboro  came  upon  an  interest- 
ing bit  of  intelligence  in  the  Eagle  Pass 
Guide y  the  town's  weekly  newspaper.  It  was 
a  Saturday  afternoon  (the  day  of  the  paper's 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  43 

publication),  and  Harboro  had  gone  up  to 
the  balcony  overlooking  the  garden.  He  had 
carried  the  newspaper  with  him.  He  did 
not  expect  to  find  anything  in  the  chronicles 
of  local  happenings,  past  or  prospective,  that 
would  interest  him.  But  there  was  always 
a  department  of  railroad  news — consisting 
mainly  of  personal  items — which  had  for  him 
the  quality  of  a  letter  from  home. 

Sylvia  was  down-stairs  at  work  in  the 
dining-room,  directing  the  efforts  of  old  An- 
tonia.  Perhaps  I  should  say  that  she  was 
extraordinarily  happy.  I  doubt  very  much 
if  she  had  come  to  contemplate  the  married 
state  through  Harboro's  eyes;  but  she  seemed 
to  have  feared  that  an  avalanche  would  fall 
— and  none  had  fallen.  Harboro  had  mani- 
fested an  unswerving  gentleness  toward  her,, 
and  she  had  begun  to  "let  down,"  as  swim- 
mers say,  with  confidence  in  her  ability  to 
find  bottom  and  attain  the  shore. 

When  at  length  she  went  up  to  the  balcony 
to  tell  Harboro  that  supper  was  ready,  she 
stood  arrested  by  the  pleasantly  purposeful 
expression  in  his  eyes.  She  had  learned, 
rather  creditably,  to  anticipate  him. 


44  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"You  are  to  have  a  new  dress,"  he  an- 
nounced. 

"Yes.  .  .  .     Why.?" 

"I  see  here" — he  tapped  the  paper  on  his 
knee — "that  they're  getting  ready  for  their 
first  dance  of  the  winter  at  the  Mesquitc 
Club." 

She  forgot  herself.  "But  we* re  not  in- 
vited!" she  said,  frankly  incredulous. 

"Why  no,  not  yet.  But  we  shall  be.  Why 
shouldn't  we  be  ?" 

Her  hand  went  to  her  heart  in  the  old  wist- 
ful way.  "I  don't  know  ...  I  just  thought 
we  shouldn't  be.  Those  affairs  are  for  .  .  . 
I've  never  thought  they  would  invite  me  to 
one  of  their  dances." 

"  Nonsense !  They've  invited  me.  Now 
they'll  invite  us,  I  suppose  the  best  milliners 
are  across  the  river,  aren't  they?" 

She  seemed  unwilling  to  meet  his  eyes.  "I 
believe  some  women  get  their  dresses  made 
over  there,  and  wear  them  back  to  this  side 
— so  they  needn't  pay  any  duty.  That  is,  if 
they're  to  be  handsome  dresses." 

"Well,  this  is  going  to  be  a  handsome  dress.'* 

She  seemed  pleased,  undeniably;    yet  she 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  45 

changed  the  subject  with  evident  relief.  "  An- 
tonia  will  be  cross  if  we  don't  go  right  down. 
And  you  must  remember  to  praise  the  en- 
chalades.  She's  tried  with  them  ever  so 
hard."  This  wasn't  an  affectation  on  Syl- 
via's part.     She  was  a  good-hearted  girl. 

"It's  to  be  a  handsome  dress,"  repeated 
Harboro  an  hour  later,  when  they  had  re- 
turned to  the  balcony.  It  was  dusk  now, 
and  little  tapers  of  light  were  beginning  to 
burn  here  and  there  in  the  desert:  small, 
open  fires  where  Mexican  women  were  cook- 
ing their  suppers  of  dried  goat's  meat  and 
frijoles. 

Said  Sylvia:  "If  only  .  .  .  Does  it  matter 
so  much  to  you  that  they  should  invite  us  ?" 

"  It  matters  to  m©  on  your  account.  Such 
things  are  yours  by  right.  You  wouldn't  be 
happy  always  with  me  alone.  We  must  think 
of  the  future." 

Sylvia  took  his  hand  and  stroked  it  thought- 
fully. There  were  moments  when  she  hun- 
gered for  a  bit  of  the  comedy  of  life:  laughter 
and  other  youthful  noises.  The  Mexican 
bailes  and  their  humble  feasts  were  delight- 
ful;   and  the  song  of  the  violins,   and  the 


46  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

odor  of  smoke,  and  the  innocent  rivalries, 
and  the  night  air.  But  the  Mesquite 
Club.  .  .  . 

"If  only  we  could  go  on  the  way  we  are," 
she  said  finally,  with  a  sigh  of  contentment — 
and  regret. 


CHAPTER  V 

Harboro  insisted  upon  her  going  across 
the  river  with  him  the  next  day,  a  Sunday. 
It  was  now  late  in  October,  but  you  wouldn't 
have  realized  it  unless  you  had  looked  at  the 
calendar.  The  sun  was  warm — rather  too 
warm.  The  air  was  extraordinarily  clear. 
It  was  an  election  year  and  the  town  had  been 
somewhat  disorderly  the  night  before.  Har- 
boro and  Sylvia  had  heard  the  noises  from 
their  balcony:  singing,  first,  and  then  shout- 
ing. And  later  drunken  Mexicans  had  ridden 
past  the  house  and  on  out  the  Quemado  Road, 
A  Mexican  who  is  the  embodiment  of  taci- 
turnity when  afoot,  will  become  a  howling 
organism  when  he  is  mounted. 

Harboro  had  telephoned  to  see  if  an  ap- 
pointment could  be  made — ^to  a  madame  some- 
body whose  professional  card  he  had  found 
in  the  Guide,  And  he  had  been  assured  that 
monsieur  would  be  very  welcome  on  a  Sunday. 

Sylvia  was  glad  that  it  was  not  on  a  week- 
day, and  that  it  was  in  the  forenoon,  when 

47 


48  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

she  would  be  required  to  make  her  first  pub- 
lic appearance  with  her  husband.  The  town 
would  be  practically  deserted,  save  by  a  few 
better-class  young  men  who  might  be  idling 
about  the  drug-store.  They  wouldn't  know 
her,  and  if  they  did,  they  would  behave  cir- 
cumspectly. Strangely  enough,  it  was  Syl- 
via's conviction  that  men  are  nearly  all  good 
creatures. 

As  it  fell  out  it  was  Harboro  and  not  Sylvia 
who  was  destined  to  be  humiliated  that  day 
— a  fact  which  may  not  seem  strange  to  the 
discerning. 

They  had  got  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the 
Rio  Grande  bridge  without  experiencing  any- 
thing which  marred  the  general  effect  of  a 
stage  set  for  a  Passion  Play — but  with  the 
actors  missing;  and  then  they  saw  a  carriage 
approaching  from  the  Mexican  side. 

Harboro  knew  the  horses.  They  were  the 
General  Manager's.  And  presently  he  recog- 
nized the  coachman.  The  horses  were  mov- 
ing at  a  walk,  very  slowly;  but  at  length 
Harboro  recognized  the  General  Manager's 
wife,  reclining  under  a  white  silk  sunshade  and 
listening  to  the  vivacious  chatter  of  a  young 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  49 

woman  by  her  side.  They  would  be  coming 
over  to  attend  the  services  in  the  Episco- 
pal church  in  Eagle  Pass,  Harboro  realized. 
Then  he  recognized  the  young  woman,  too. 
He  had  met  her  at  one  of  the  affairs  to  which 
he  had  been  invited.  He  recalled  her  as  a 
girl  whose  voice  was  too  high-pitched  for  a 
reposeful  effect,  and  who  created  the  impres- 
sion that  she  looked  upon  the  social  life  of 
the  border  as  a  rather  amusing  adventure. 

You  might  have  supposed  that  they  con- 
sidered themselves  the  sole  occupants  of  the 
world  as  they  advanced,  perched  on  their 
high  seat;  and  this,  Harboro  realized,  was 
the  true  fashionable  air.  It  was  an  instinct 
rather  than  a  pose,  he  believed,  and  he  was 
pondering  that  problem  in  psychology  which 
has  to  do  with  the  fact  that  when  people  ride 
or  drive  they  appear  to  have  a  different  men- 
tal organism  from  those  who  walk. 

Then  something  happened.  The  carriage 
was  now  almost  at  hand,  and  Harboro  saw 
the  coachman  turn  his  head  slightly,  as  if  to 
hear  better.  Then  he  leaned  forward  and 
rattled  the  whip  in  its  place,  and  the  horses 
set  off  at  a  sharp  trot.     There  was  a  rule 


so  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

against  trotting  on  the  bridge,  but  there  are 
people  everywhere  who  are  not  required  to 
observe  rules. 

Harboro  paused,  ready  to  lift  his  hat.  He 
liked  the  General  Manager's  wife.  But  the 
occupants  of  the  carriage  passed  without  see- 
ing him.  And  Harboro  got  the  impression 
that  there  was  something  determined  in  the 
casual  air  with  which  the  two  women  looked 
straight  before  them.  He  got  an  odd  feeling 
that  the  most  finely  tempered  steel  of  all  lies 
underneath  the  delicate  golden  filigree  of  so- 
cial custom  and  laws. 

He  was  rather  pleased  at  a  conclusion  which 
came  to  him:  people  of  that  kind  really  did 
see,  then.  They  only  pretended  not  to  see. 
And  then  he  felt  the  blood  pumping  through 
the  veins  in  his  neck. 

"What  is  it.?"  asked  Sylvia,  with  that 
directness  which  Harboro  comprehended  and 
respected. 

"Why,  those  ladies  .  .  .  they  didn't  seem 
quite  the  type  you'd  expect  to  see  here,  did 
they?" 

"Oh,  there's  every  type  here,"  she  replied 
lightly.     She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  Har- 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  51 

boro.  There  was  something  in  his  face  which 
troubled  her.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  him 
with  that  expression  of  wounded  sensibilities 
and  rebellious  pride  in  his  eyes.  And  she  had 
understood  everything. 

She  did  not  break  in  upon  his  thoughts 
soon.  She  would  have  liked  to  divert  his 
mind,  but  she  felt  like  a  culprit  who  realizes 
that  words  are  often  betrayers. 

And  so  they  walked  in  silence  up  that  nar- 
row bit  of  street  which  connects  the  bridge 
with  Piedras  Negras,  and  leads  you  under 
the  balcony  of  what  used  to  be  the  American 
Consul's  house,  and  on  past  the  cuartel,  where 
the  imprisoned  soldiers  are  kept.  Here,  of 
course,  the  street  broadens  and  skirts  the 
plaza  where  the  band  plays  of  an  evening, 
and  where  the  town  promenades  round  and 
round  the  little  square  of  palms  and  fountains, 
under  the  stars.  You  may  remember  that  a 
little  farther  on,  on  one  side  of  the  plaza, 
there  is  the  immense  church  which  has  been 
building  for  a  century,  more  or  less,  and 
which  is  still  incomplete. 

There  were  a  few  miserable-looking  soldiers, 
with  shapeless,   colorless   uniforms,   loitering 


52  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

in  front  of  the  \cuartel  as  Harboro  and  Sylvia 
passed. 

The  indefinably  sinister  character  of  the 
building  affected  Sylvia.  "What  is  it?"  she 
asked. 

"It's  where  the  republic  keeps  a  body  of 
Its  soldiers,"  explained  Harboro.  "They're 
inside — locked  up." 

They  were  both  glad  to  sit  down  on  one  of 
the  plaza  benches  for  a  few  minutes;  they  did 
so  by  a  common  impulse,  without  speaking. 

"It's  the  first  time  I  ever  thought  of  pris- 
oners having  what  you'd  call  an  honorable 
profession,"  Sylvia  said  slowly.  She  gazed 
at  the  immense,  low  structure  with  troubled 
eyes.  Flags  fluttered  from  the  ramparts  at 
intervals,  but  they  seemed  oddly  lacking  in 
gallantry  or  vitality. 

"It's  a  barbarous  custom,"  said  Harboro 
shortly.  He  was  still  thinking  of  that  inci- 
dent on  the  bridge. 

"And  yet  .  .  .  you  might  think  of  them  as 
happy,  living  that  way." 

"  Good  gracious  !    Happy .?" 

"They  needn't  care  about  how  they  are  to 
be  provided  for — and  they  have  their  duties." 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  53 

"But  they're  prisoners y  Sylvia!" 

"Yes,  prisoners.  .  .  .  Aren't  we  all  pris- 
oners, somehow?  I've  sometimes  thought 
that  none  of  us  can  do  just  what  we'd  like 
to  do,  or  come  or  go  freely.  We  think  we're 
free,  as  oxen  in  a  treadmill  think  of  themselves 
as  being  free,  I  suppose.  We  think  we're 
climbing  a  long  hill,  and  that  we'll  get  to  the 
top  after  a  while.  But  at  sundown  the  gate 
is  opened  and  the  oxen  are  released.  They've 
never  really  gotten  anywhere." 

He  turned  to  her  with  the  stanch  optimism 
she  had  grown  accustomed  to  in  him.  "A 
pagan  doctrine,  that,"  he  said  spiritedly. 

"A  pagan  doctrine.  ...  I  wonder  what 
that  means." 

"Pagans  are  people  who  don't  believe  in  ^ 
God.     I  am  not  speaking  of  the  God  of  the 
churches,  exactly.     I  mean  a  good  influence." 

"Don't  they  believe  in  their  own  gods?'* 

"No  doubt.  But  you  might  call  their  own 
gods  bad  influences,  as  often  as  not." 

"Ah — perhaps  they're  just  simple  folk  who 
believe  in  their  own  experiences." 

He  had  the  troubled  feeling  that  her  intu- 
itions, her  fatalistic  leanings,  were  giving  her 


54  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

a  surer  grasp  of  the  subject  than  his,  which 
was  based  upon  a  rather  nebulous,  logical 
process  that  often  brought  him  to  confu- 
sion. 

"I  only  know  that  I  am  free,"  he  declared 
doggedly. 

The  sun  had  warmed  her  to  an  almost 
vagrant  mood.  Her  smile  was  delicate 
enough,  yet  her  eyes  held  a  gentle  taunt  as 
she  responded:  "Not  a  bit  of  it;  you  have  a 
wife." 

"A  wife — yes;  and  that  gives  me  ten  times 
the  freedom  I  ever  had  before.  A  man  is 
like  a  bird  with  only  one  wing — before  he 
finds  a  wife.  His  wife  becomes  his  other 
wing.  There  isn't  any  height  beyond  him, 
when  he  has  a  wife." 

She  placed  her  hands  on  her  cheeks.  "Two 
wings!"  she  mused.  .  .  .  "What's  between 
the  wings  ?" 

"A  heart,  you  may  say,  if  you  will.  Or  a 
soul.  A  capacity.  Words  are  fashioned  by 
scholars — dull  fellows.  But  you  know  what 
I  mean." 

From  the  hidden  depths  of  the  cuartel  a 
silver  bugle-note  sounded,  and  Sylvia  looked 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  55 

to  see  if  the  soldiers  sitting  out  in  front  would 
go  away;  but  they  did  not  do  so.  She  arose. 
"Would  you  mind  going  into  the  church  a 
minute?"  she  asked. 

"No;  but  why?" 

"Oh,  anybody  can  go  into  those  churches/* 
she  responded. 

"Anybody  can  go  into  any  church." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  What  I  mean  is  that 
these  old  Catholic  churches  seem  different. 
In  our  own  churches  you  have  a  feeling  of 
being — ^what  do  you  say? — personally  con- 
ducted. As  if  you  were  a  visitor  being  shown 
children's  trinkets.  There  is  something  im- 
personal— something  boundless — in  churches 
like  this  one  here.  The  silence  makes  you 
think  that  there  is  nobody  in  them — or  that 
perhaps  .  .  .  God  isn't  far  away." 

He  frowned.  "But  this  is  just  where  the 
trinkets  are — in  these  churches:  the  images, 
the  painted  figures,  the  robes,  the  whole  mys- 
terious paraphernalia." 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  when  there  isn't  anything 
going  on.  You  feel  an  influence.  I  remem- 
ber going  into  a  church  in  San  Antonio  once 
— a  Protestant  chapel,  and  the  only  thing  I 


56  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

could  recall  afterward  was  a  Yankee  clock 
that  ticked  too  fast  and  too  loud.  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  horribly  inappropriate. 
Time  was  what  you  thought  of.  Not  eternity. 
You  felt  that  the  people  would  be  afraid  of 
wasting  a  minute  too  much — as  if  their  real 
concerns  were  elsewhere." 

Harboro  was  instinctively  combating  the 
thought  that  was  in  her  mind,  so  far  as  there 
was  a  definite  thought,  and  as  far  as  he  under- 
stood it.  "But  why  shouldn't  there  be  a 
clock.?"  he  asked.  "If  people  feel  that  they 
ought  to  give  a  certain  length  of  time  to  wor- 
ship, and  then  go  back  to  their  work  again, 
why  shouldn't  they  have  a  clock  .f*" 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  she  conceded; 
and  then,  with  a  faint  smile:  "Yes,  if  it 
didn't  tick  too  loud." 

She  lowered  her  voice  abruptly  on  the  last 
word.  They  had  passed  across  the  doorless 
portal  and  were  in  the  presence  of  a  group  of 
silent,  kneeling  figures:  wretched  women 
whose  heads  were  covered  with  black  cotton 
rebows,  who  knelt  and  faced  the  distant  al- 
tar. They  weren't  in  rows.  They  had  settled 
down  just  anywhere.     And  there  were  men: 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  57 

swarthy,  ill-shapen,  dejected.  Their  lips 
moved  noiselessly. 

Harboro  observed  her  a  little  uneasily. 
Her  sympathy  for  this  sort  of  thing  was  new 
to  him.  But  she  made  none  of  the  custom- 
ary signs  of  fellowship,  and  after  a  brief  in- 
terval she  turned  and  led  the  way  back  into 
the  sunshine. 

He  was  still  regarding  her  strangely  when 
she  paused,  just  outside  the  door,  and  opened 
a  little  hand-bag  which  depended  from  her 
arm.  She  was  quite  intently  devoted  to  a 
search  for  something.  Presently  she  pro- 
duced a  coin,  and  then  Harboro  observed  for 
the  first  time  that  the  tortured  figure  of  a 
beggar  sat  in  the  sun  outside  the  church  door. 

Sylvia  leaned  over  with  an  impassive  face 
and  dropped  the  coin  into  the  beggar's  cup. 

She  chanced  to  glance  at  Harboro's  face 
an  instant  later,  and  she  was  dismayed  a 
little  by  its  expression:  that  of  an  almost 
violent  distaste.  What  did  it  mean.?  Was 
it  because  she  had  given  a  coin  to  the  beggar  ? 
There  could  have  been  no  other  reason.  But 
why  should  he  look  as  if  her  action  had  con- 
taminated her  in  some  fashion — as  if  there 


58  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

had  been  communication  between  her  and 
the  unfortunate  anciano  ?  As  if  there  had 
been  actual  contact  ? 

"You  wouldn't  have  done  that  ?"  she  said. 

"No,  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  replied. 

"  I  can't  think  why.  The  wretched  creature 
— I  should  have  felt  troubled  if  I'd  ignored 
him." 

"But  it's  a  profession.  It's  as  much  a  part 
of  the  national  customs  as  dancing  and  drink- 
ing." 

"Yes,  I  know.  A  profession  .  .  .  but  isn't 
that  all  the  more  reason  why  we  should  give 
him  a  little  help  ?" 

"A  reason  why  you  should  permit  your- 
self to  be  imposed  upon  V 

"I  can't  help  thinking  further  than  that. 
After  all,  it's  he  and  his  kind  that  must  have 
been  imposed  upon  in  the  beginning.  It's 
being  a  profession  makes  me  believe  that  all 
the  people  who  might  have  helped  him,  who 
might  have  given  him  a  chance  to  be  happy 
and  respectable,  really  conspired  against  him 
in  some  way.  You  have  to  believe  that  it's 
the  rule  that  some  must  be  comfortable  and 
some  wretched." 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  59 

"A  beggar  is  a  beggar,"  said  Harboro. 
"And  he  was  filthy." 

"  But  don't  you  suppose  he'd  rather  be  the 
proprietor  of  a  wine-shop,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  if  he  had  had  any  choice  ?" 

"Well  .  .  .  It's  not  a  simple  matter,  of 
course.  I'm  glad  you  did  what  you  felt  you 
ought  to  do."  It  occurred  to  Harboro  that 
he  was  setting  up  too  much  opposition  to  her 
whims — whims  which  seemed  rooted  in  her 
principles  as  well  as  her  impulses.  It  was  as 
if  their  minds  were  of  different  shapes:  hers 
circular,  his  square;  so  that  there  could  be 
only  one  point  of  contact  between  them — 
that  one  point  being  their  love  for  each  other. 
There  would  be  a  fuller  conformity  after 
a  while,  he  was  sure.  He  must  try  to  under- 
stand her,  to  get  at  her  odd  point  of  view. 
She  might  be  right  occasionally,  when  they 
were  in  disagreement. 

He  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 
"I'm  afraid  we  ought  to  be  getting  on  to  the 
madame's,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Harboro  would  have  made  you  think  of 
a  bear  in  a  toy-shop  when  he  sat  down  in 
the  tiny  front  room  of  Madame  Boucher's 
milHnery  establishment.  He  was  uncomfort- 
ably, if  vaguely,  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  many  hats,  displayed  on  affairs  which  were 
like  unfinished  music-racks. 

He  had  given  Madame  Boucher  certain 
instructions — or  perhaps  liberties  would  be  a 
better  word.  Mrs.  Harboro  was  to  be  shown 
only  the  best  fabrics,  he  told  her;  and  no 
pains  were  to  be  spared  to  make  a  dress  which 
would  be  a  credit  to  madame's  establishment. 
Madame  had  considered  this,  and  him,  and 
had  smiled.  Madame's  smile  had  impressed 
him  curiously.  There  had  been  no  co-opera- 
tion between  lips  and  eyes.  The  eyes  had 
opened  a  little  wider,  as  if  with  a  stimulated 
rapaciousness.  The  lips  had  opened  to  the 
extent  of  a  nicely  achieved,  symmetrical  cres- 
cent of  teeth.     It  made  Harboro  think  of  a 

carefully  constructed  Jack-o'-Lantern. 

60 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  6i 

Sylvia  had  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  help 
in  making  a  choice,  but  he  had  looked  slightly 
alarmed,  and  had  resolutely  taken  a  seat 
which  afforded  a  view  of  the  big  Casa  Blanca 
across  the  way:  an  emporium  conducted  on 
a  big  scale  by  Germans.  He  even  became 
oblivious  to  the  discussion  on  the  other  side 
of  the  partition,  where  Sylvia  and  madame 
presently  entered  upon  the  preliminaries  of 
the  business  in  hand. 

The  street  was  quite  familiar  to  him. 
There  had  been  a  year  or  so,  long  ago,  when 
he  had  "made"  Piedras  Negras,  as  railroad- 
ers say,  twice  a  week.  He  hadn't  liked  the 
town  very  well.  He  saw  its  vice  rather  than 
its  romance.  He  had  attended  one  bull- 
fight, and  had  left  his  seat  in  disgust  when 
he  saw  a  lot  of  men  and  women  of  seeming 
gentility  applauding  a  silly  fellow  whose  sole 
stock  in  trade  was  an  unblushing  vanity. 

His  imagination  travelled  on  beyond  the 
bull-pen,  to  the  shabby  dance-halls  along  the 
river.  It  was  a  custom  for  Americans  to 
visit  the  dance-halls  at  least  once.  He  had 
gone  into  them  repeatedly.  Other  railroad- 
ers who  were  his  associates  enjoyed  going  into 


62  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

these  places,  and  Harboro,  rather  than  be 
alone  in  the  town,  had  followed  disinterestedly 
in  their  wake,  and  had  looked  on  with  cold, 
contemplative  eyes  at  the  disorderly  picture 
they  presented:  unfortunate  Mexican  girls 
dancing  with  cowboys  and  railroaders  and 
soldiers  and  nondescripts.  Three  Mexicans, 
with  harp,  violin,  and  'cello  had  supplied 
the  music:  the  everlasting  national  airs.  It 
seemed  to  Harboro  that  the  whole  republic 
spent  half  its  time  within  hearing  of  Sobre 
las  OlaSy  and  La  Paloma,  and  La  Golondrtna, 
He  had  heard  so  much  of  the  emotional  noises 
vibrating  across  the  land  that  when  he  got 
away  from  the  throb  of  his  engine,  into  some 
silent  place,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  ears 
reverberated  with  flutes  and  strings,  rather 
than  the  song  of  steam,  which  he  understood 
and  respected.  He  had  got  the  impression 
that  music  smelled  bad — like  stale  wine  and 
burning  corn-husks  and  scented  tobacco  and 
easily  perishable  fruits. 

He  remembered  the  only  woman  who  had 
ever  made  an  impression  upon  him  down  in 
those  dance-halls :  an  overmature  creature,  un- 
usually fair  for  a  Mexican,  who  spoke  a  little 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  63 

English,  manipulating  her  Hps  quaintly,  like 
a  child.  He  recalled  her  favorite  expression: 
*'My  class  is  very  fine!"  She  had  told  him 
this  repeatedly,  enunciating  the  words  with 
delicacy.  She  had  once  said  to  him,  com- 
miseratingly:  "You  work  very  hard  ?'*  And 
when  he  had  confessed  that  his  duties  were 
onerous,  she  had  brightened.  "Much  work, 
much  money,"  she  had  said,  with  the  avidity 
of  a  boy  who  has  caught  a  rabbit  in  a  trap. 
And  Harboro  had  wondered  where  she  had 
got  such  a  monstrously  erroneous  conception 
of  the  law  of  industrialism. 

The  picture  of  the  whirling  figures  came 
back  to  him:  the  vapor  of  dust  in  the  room, 
the  loud  voices  of  men  at  the  bar,  trying  to 
be  heard  above  the  din  of  the  music  and  the 
dancing.  There  came  back  to  him  the  mem- 
ory of  a  drunken  cowboy,  nudging  the  vio- 
linist's elbow  as  he  played,  and  shouting: 
*'Give  us  Dixie — give  us  a  white  man's  tune'* 
— and  the  look  of  veiled  hatred  in  the  slum- 
brous eyes  of  the  Mexican  musician,  who 
had  inferred  the  insult  without  comprehend- 
ing the  words. 

He  recalled  other  pictures  of  those  nights: 


64  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  Indian  girls  who  might  be  expected  to 
yell  in  the  midst  of  a  dance  if  they  had  suc- 
ceeded in  attracting  the  attention  of  a  man 
who  usually  danced  with  some  one  else.  And 
there  were  other  girls  with  a  Spanish  strain 
in  them — ^girls  with  a  drop  of  blood  that 
might  have  been  traced  back  a  hundred  years 
to  Madrid  or  Seville  or  Barcelona.  Small 
wonder  if  such  girls  felt  like  shrieking  too, 
sometimes.  Not  over  petty  victories,  and 
with  joy;  but  when  their  hearts  broke  be- 
cause the  bells  of  memory  called  to  them  from 
away  in  the  barred  windows  of  Spain,  or  in 
walled  gardens,  or  with  the  shepherd  lovers 
of  Andalusia. 

If  you  danced  with  one  of  them  you  paid 
thirty  cents  at  the  bar  and  got  a  drink,  while 
the  girl  was  given  a  check  good  for  fifteen 
cents  in  the  trade  of  the  place.  The  girls 
used  to  cash  in  their  checks  at  the  end  of  a 
night's  work  at  fifty  cents  a  dozen.  It  wasn't 
quite  fair;  but  then  the  proprietor  was  a 
business  man. 

"My  class  is  very  fine  !"  The  words  came 
back  to  Harboro's  mind.  Good  God  ! — ^what 
had  become  of  her  ?    There  had  been  a  rail- 


%^ 


HARBORO  AND  SYLVIA  65 

road  man,  a  fellow  named  Peterson,  who  was 
just  gross  enough  to  fancy  her — a  good  chap, 
too,  in  his  way.  Courageous,  energetic,  loyal 
— at  least  to  other  men.  He  had  occasionally 
thought  that  Peterson  meant  to  take  the 
poor,  pretentious  creature  away  from  the 
dance-halls  and  establish  her  somewhere.  He 
had  not  seen  Peterson  for  years  now. 

.  .  .  Sylvia  emerged  from  behind  the  thin 
partition,  sighing  and  smiling.  "Did  it  seem 
very  long.?"  she  asked.  "It's  hard  to  make 
up  your  mind.  It's  like  taking  one  color  out 
of  the  rainbow  and  expecting  it  to  look  as 
pretty  as  the  whole  rainbow.  But  I'm  ready 
now." 

"Remember,  a  week  from  Wednesday," 
called  Madame  Boucher,  as  Harboro  and  Syl- 
via moved  toward  the  door. 

Harboro  looked  at  Sylvia  inquiringly. 

"For  the  try-on,"  she  explained.  "Yes, 
ril  be  here."  She  went  out,  Harboro  hold- 
ing the  door  open  for  her. 

Out  on  the  sidewalk  she  almost  collided 
with  a  heavy  man,  an  American — a  gross, 
blond,  good-natured  creature  who  suddenly 
smiled  with  extreme  gratification.     "  Hello ! — 


66  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Sylvia  /"  he  cried.     He  seized  her  by  the  hand 
and  drew  her  close. 

Harboro  stood  on  the  door-step  and  looked 
down — and  recognized  Peterson. 


PART  II 
THE  TIME  OF  FLAME 


CHAPTER  VII 

Peterson  felt  the  dark  shadow  of  Harboro 
immediately.  He  looked  up  into  the  gravely 
inquiring  face  above  him,  and  then  he  gave 
voice  to  a  new  delight.  "  Hello ! — Harboro  ! " 
He  dropped  Sylvia's  hand  as  if  she  no  longer 
existed.  An  almost  indefinable  change  of  ex- 
pression occurred  in  his  ruddy,  radiant  face. 
It  was  as  if  his  joy  at  seeing  Sylvia  had  been 
that  which  we  experience  in  the  face  of  a 
beautiful  illusion;  and  now,  seeing  Harboro, 
it  was  as  if  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  a 
cherished  reality.  He  grasped  Harboro's 
hand  and  dragged  him  down  from  the  step. 
"Old  Harboro!"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  two  appear  to  have  met  before," 
remarked  Harboro,  looking  with  quiet  in- 
quiry from  Sylvia  to  Peterson,  and  back  to 
Sylvia. 

"Yes,  in  San  Antonio,"  she  explained.  It 
had  been  in  Eagle  Pass,  really,  but  she  did  not 
want  Harboro  to  know. 

The  smile  on  Peterson's  face  had  become 
69 


70  CHILDREN  OF, THE  DESERT 

curiously  fixed.  "Yes,  in  San  Antonio,"  he 
echoed. 

"  He  knew  my  father,'"  added  Sylvia. 

"A  particular  friend,"  said  Peterson.  And 
then,  the  lines  of  mirth  on  his  face  becoming 
a  little  less  rigid  and  the  color  a  little  less 
ruddy,  he  added  to  Sylvia:  "Doesn't  your 
father  occasionally  talk  about  his  old  friend 
Peterson  ?^* 

Harboro  interrupted.  "At  any  rate,  you 
probably  don't  know  that  she  is  Mrs.  Har- 
boro now." 

Peterson  appeared  to  be  living  entirely 
within  himself  for  the  moment.  He  might 
have  made  you  think  of  the  Trojan  Horse — - 
innocuous  without,  but  teeming  with  bellig- 
erent activity  within.  He  seemed  to  be 
laughing  maliciously,  though  without  move- 
ment or  noise.  Then  he  was  all  frank  joy- 
ousness  again.  "Good!"  he  exclaimed.  He 
smote  Harboro  on  the  shoulder.  "Good!" 
He  stood  apart,  vigorously  erect,  childishly 
pleased.     "Enjoying  a  holiday  .?"  he  asked. 

And  when  Harboro  nodded  he  became  ani- 
mated again.  "You're  both  going  to  take 
dinner  with  me — over  at  the  InternacionaL 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  71 

We'll  celebrate.  I've  got  to  take  my  train 
out  in  an  hour — I've  got  a  train  now,  Har- 
boro."  (Harboro  had  noted  his  conductor's 
uniform.)  "We'll  just  have  time.  We  can 
have  a  talk." 

Harboro  recalled  a  score  of  fellows  he  had 
known  up  and  down  the  line,  with  most  of 
whom  he  had  gotten  out  of  touch.  Peterson 
would  know  about  some  of  them.  He  realized 
how  far  he  had  been  removed  from  the  spon- 
taneous joys  of  the  railroad  career  since  he 
had  been  in  the  office.  And  Peterson  had 
always  been  a  friendly  chap,  with  lots  of  good 
points. 

''Should  you  like  it,  Sylvia.?"  he  asked. 

She  had  liked  Peterson,  too.  He  had  al- 
ways been  good-natured  and  generous.  He 
had  seemed  often  almost  to  understand.  .  .  . 
"I  think  it  would  be  nice,"  she  replied.  She 
was  afraid  there  was  a  note  of  guilt  in  her 
voice.  She  wished  Harboro  had  refused  to 
go,  without  referring  the  matter  to  her. 

"I  could  telephone  to  Antonia,"  he  said 
slowly.  It  seemed  impossible  to  quicken  his 
pulses  in  any  way.  "She  needn't  get  any- 
thing ready." 


72  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"I  could  do  It,"  suggested  Sylvia.  She  felt 
she'd  rather  not  be  left  alone  with  Peterson. 
*'I  could  use  Madame  Boucher's  telephone." 

But  Harboro  had  already  laid  his  hand  on 
the  door.  "Better  let  me,"  he  said.  ''I 
can  do  it  quicker."  He  knew  that  Antonia 
would  want  to  remonstrate,  to  ask  questions, 
and  he  wanted  Sylvia  to  enjoy  the  occasion 
whole-heartedly.  He  went  back  into  the 
milliner's  shop. 

'^Peterson,''  said  the  man  who  remained 
on  the  sidewalk  with  Sylvia. 

"I  remember,"  she  replied,  her  lips  scarcely 
moving,  her  eyes  avoiding  his  burning  glance. 
"And  ...  in  San  Antonio." 

They  were  rather  early  for  the  midday 
meal  when  they  reached  the  Internacional; 
indeed,  they  were  the  first  to  enter  the  dining- 
room.  Nevertheless  the  attitudes  of  the 
Mexican  waiters  were  sufficient  assurance  that 
they  might  expect  to  be  served  immediately. 

Peterson  looked  at  his  watch  and  compared 
it  with  the  clock  in  the  dining-room.  "The 
train  from  Spofford  is  late,"  he  said.  "It's 
due  now."     He  pitched  his  head  up  like  a 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  73 

dog.  "There  she  is!"  he  exclaimed.  There 
was  the  rumble  of  a  train  crossing  the  bridge. 
"They'll  be  coming  in  right  away."  He  in- 
dicated the  empty  tables  by  a  glance. 

Harboro  knew  all  about  the  train  schedules 
and  such  matters.  He  knew  that  American 
tourists  bound  for  Mexico  would  be  coming 
over  on  that  train,  and  that  they  would  have 
an  hour  for  dinner  while  their  baggage  was 
passing  through  the  hands  of  the  customs 
officials. 

They  had  given  their  orders  and  were  still 
waiting  when  the  train  pulled  in  at  the  sta- 
tion, close  at  hand,  and  in  a  moment  the 
dining-room  became  noisy. 

"Travel  seems  pretty  light,"  commented 
Peterson.  He  appeared  to  be  trying  to  make 
conversation;  he  was  obviously  under  some 
sort  of  constraint.  Still,  he  had  the  genuine 
interest  of  the  railroader  in  the  subjects  he 
mentioned. 

Harboro  had  not  observed  that  there  was 
not  even  one  woman  among  the  travellers 
who  entered;  but  Peterson  noted  the  fact, 
mentioning  it  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has 
been  deprived  of  a  natural  right.     And  Har- 


74  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

boro  wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  a 
man  who  saw  the  whole  world,  always,  solely 
in  relation  to  women.  He  sensed  the  fact 
that  Peterson  was  not  entirely  comfortable. 
"He's  probably  never  grown  accustomed  to 
being  in  the  company  of  a  decent  woman," 
he  concluded.  He  tried  to  launch  the  sub- 
ject of  old  associates.  It  seemed  that  Peter- 
son had  been  out  in  Durango  for  some  time, 
but  he  had  kept  in  touch  with  most  of  the 
fellows  on  the  line  to  the  City.  He  began  to 
talk  easily,  and  Harboro  was  enjoying  the 
meeting  even  before  the  waiter  came  back 
with  their  food. 

Sylvia  was  ill  at  ease.  She  was  glad  that 
Harboro  and  Peterson  had  found  something 
to  talk  about.  She  began  to  eat  the  amber- 
colored  grapes  the  waiter  had  placed  before 
her.  She  seemed  absent-minded,  absorbed  in 
her  own  thoughts.  And  then  she  forgot  self 
in  the  contemplation  of  a  man  and  a  child 
who  had  come  in  and  taken  a  table  at  the 
other  end  of  the  dining-room.  The  man  wore 
a  band  of  crape  around  his  arm.  The  child, 
a  little  girl  of  five  or  six,  had  plainly  sobbed 
herself  into  a  condition  verging  upon  stupor. 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  75 

She  was  not  eating  the  dinner  which  had 
been  brought  to  her,  though  she  occasionally 
glanced  with  miserable  eyes  at  one  dish  or 
another.  She  seemed  unable  to  help  herself, 
and  at  intervals  a  dry  sob  shook  her  tiny 
body. 

Sylvia  forgot  the  grapes  beside  her  plate; 
she  was  looking  with  womanly  pity  at  that 
little  girl,  and  at  the  man,  who  seemed  sunk 
into  the  depths  of  despair. 

Peterson  followed  her  compassionate  glance. 
"Ah,"  he  explained,  "it's  a  chap  who  came 
up  from  Paila  a  little  while  back.  He  had 
his  wife  with  him.  She  was  dying,  and  she 
wanted  to  be  buried  in  Texas.  I  believe  he's 
in  some  sort  of  business  down  In  Paila." 

The  spirit  of  compassion  surrounded  Sylvia 
like  a  halo.  She  had  just  noted  that  the 
little  girl  was  making  a  stupendous  effort  to 
conquer  her  sobs,  to  "be  good,"  as  children 
say.  With  a  heroic  resolve  which  would  have 
been  creditable  to  a  Joan  of  Arc,  the  little 
thing  suddenly  began  to  try  to  eat  from  one 
of  the  dishes,  but  her  hands  trembled  so  that 
she  was  quite  helpless.  Her  efforts  seemed 
about  to  suffer  a  final  collapse. 


76  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

And  then  Sylvia  pushed  her  chair  back  and 
arose.  There  was  a  tremulous  smile  on  her 
lips  as  she  crossed  the  room.  She  paused  by 
that  man  with  crape  on  his  sleeve.  "I  won- 
der if  you  won't  let  me  help/'  she  said.  Her 
voice  would  have  made  you  think  of  rue,  or 
of  April  rain.  She  knelt  beside  the  child's 
chair  and  possessed  herself  of  a  tiny  hand 
with  a  persuasive  gentleness  that  would  have 
worked  miracles.  Her  face  was  uplifted,  soft, 
beaming,  bright.  She  was  scarcely  prepared 
for  the  passionate  outburst  of  the  child,  who 
suddenly  flung  forth  eager  hands  with  a  cry 
of  surrender.  Sylvia  held  the  convulsed  body 
against  her  breast,  tucking  the  distorted  face 
up  under  her  chin.  "There!"  she  soothed, 
"there !"  She  carried  her  charge  out  of  the 
room  without  wasting  words.  She  had  ob- 
served that  when  the  child  came  to  her  the 
man  had  seemed  on  the  point  of  surrender, 
too.  With  an  efi^ort  he  had  kept  himself  inert, 
with  a  wan  face.  He  had  the  dubious,  sound- 
ing expression  of  one  who  stands  at  a  door 
with  his  back  to  the  light  and  looks  out  into 
the  dark. 

Before   she  had   brought  the   child  back. 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  77 

washed  and  comforted,  to  help  her  with  her 
food,  Peterson  had  forgotten  the  interruption 
entirely.  Taking  advantage  of  Sylvia's  ab- 
sence (as  if  she  had  been  an  interfering  factor 
in  the  meeting,  but  scarcely  a  third  person), 
he  turned  keen  eyes  upon  Harboro.  "Old 
Harboro!"  he  said  affectionately  and  mus- 
ingly. Then  he  seemed  to  be  swelling  up, 
as  if  he  were  a  mobile  vessel  filled  with  water 
that  had  begun  to  boil.  He  became  as  red 
as  a  victim  of  apoplexy.  His  eyes  filled  with 
an  unholy  mirth,  his  teeth  glistened.  His 
voice  was  a  mere  wheeze,  issuing  from  a 
cataclysm  of  agonized  mirth. 

^'  And  so  youve  come  to  it  at  last  !*^  he  man- 
aged to  articulate. 

"Come  to  what  ?'*  inquired  Harboro.  His 
level  glance  was  disconcerting. 

Peterson  was  on  the  defensive  immediately. 
''You  used  not  to  care  for  women — or  you 
claimed  you  didn't." 

"Oh !  I  didn't  understand.  I  used  not  to 
care  for — a  certain  class  of  women.  I  don't 
yet." 

The  threatened  boiling-over  process  was 
abruptly  checked,  as  if  a  lid  had  been  lifted. 


78  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"Oh!"  said  Peterson  weakly.  He  gazed  at 
a  fragment  of  roast  beef  on  his  plate.  It 
might  have  been  some  sort  of  strange  in- 
sect. He  frowned  at  it.  And  then  his  eyes 
blazed  steadily  and  brightly.  He  did  not 
look  at  Harboro  again  for  a  long  time. 

Sylvia  came  back,  moving  a  little  shyly, 
and  pushing  a  strand  of  hair  back  into  its 
place.  She  looked  across  the  dining-room  to 
where  the  child  was  talking  with  old-fashioned 
sedateness  to  her  father.  She  had  forgotten 
her  tragedy — ^for  the  moment.  The  man  ap- 
peared to  have  forgotten,  too. 

But  Peterson's  dinner  turned  out  to  be  a 
failure,  after  all.  Conversation  became  desul- 
tory, listless. 

They  arose  from  their  places  at  last  and 
left  the  room.  On  the  street  they  stood  for 
a  moment,  but  nothing  was  said  about  an- 
other meeting.  Harboro  thought  of  inviting 
Peterson  over  to  the  house;  but  he  fancied 
Sylvia  wouldn't  like  it;  and  besides,  the 
man's  grossness  was  there,  more  patent  than 
ever,  and  it  stood  between  them. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Peterson.  He  shook 
hands  with  Harboro  and  with  Sylvia.     But 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  79 

while  he  shook  hands  with  Sylvia  he  was 
looking  at  Harboro.  All  that  was  substan- 
tial in  the  man's  nature  was  educed  by  men, 
not  by  women;  and  he  was  fond  of  Harboro. 
To  him  Sylvia  was  an  incident,  while  Harboro 
was  an  episode.  Harboro  typified  work  and 
planning  and  the  rebuffs  of  the  day.  Sylvia 
meant  to  him  only  a  passing  pleasure  and  the 
relaxation  of  the  night  or  of  a  holiday. 

As  he  went  away  he  seemed  eager  to  get 
around  a  corner  somewhere.  He  seemed  to 
be  swelling  up  again.  You  might  have  sup- 
posed he  was  about  to  explode. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Sylvia's  dress  made  its  appearance  in  due 
course  in  the  house  on  the  Quemado  Road. 

Sylvia  could  not  understand  why  Harboro 
should  have  arranged  to  have  it  delivered  ac- 
cording to  routine,  paying  the  duty  on  it.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  waste  of  money,  a  willingness 
to  be  a  victim  of  extortion.  Why  should  the 
fact  that  the  river  was  there  make  any  differ- 
ence ?  It  was  some  scheme  of  the  merchants 
of  Eagle  Pass,  probably,  the  purpose  of  which 
was  to  compel  you  to  buy  from  them,  and 
pay  higher  prices,  and  take  what  you  didn't 
want. 

The  dress  was  a  wonderful  affair:  a  tri- 
umph of  artful  simplicity.  It  was  white, 
with  a  suggestion  of  warmth:  an  effect  pro- 
duced by  a  second  fabric  underlying  the  vis- 
ible silk.  It  made  Sylvia  look  like  a  gentle 
queen  of  marionettes.  A  set  of  jewelry  of 
silver  filigree  had  been  bought  to  go  with  it: 

circles  of  butterflies  of  infinite  delicacy  for 

80 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  8i 

bracelets,  and  a  necklace.  You  would  have 
said  there  was  only  wanting  a  star  to  bind  in 
her  hair  and  a  wand  for  her  to  carry. 

But  the  Mesquite  Club  ball  came  and 
went,  and  the  Harboros  were  not  invited. 

Harboro  was  stunned.  The  ball  was  on  a 
Friday  night:  and  on  Saturday  he  went  up 
to  the  balcony  of  his  house  with  a  copy  of 
the  Guide  clutched  in  his  hand.  He  did  not 
turn  to  the  railroad  news.  He  was  interested 
only  in  the  full-column,  first-page  account  of 
the  ball  at  the  Mesquite  Club.  There  was 
the  customary  amount  of  fine  writing,  includ- 
ing a  patent  straining  for  new  adjectives  to 
apply  to  familiar  decorations.  And  then 
there  was  a  list  of  the  names  of  the  guests. 
Possibly  Piedras  Negras  hadn't  been  included 
— and  possibly  he  was  still  regarded  as  be- 
longing to  the  railroad  offices,  and  the  people 
across  the  river. 

But  no,  there  were  the  names:  heads  of 
departments  and  the  usual  presentable  clerks 
— ^young  Englishmen  with  an  air.  The  Gen- 
eral Manager,  as  Harboro  knew,  was  on  a 
trip  to  Torreon;  but  otherwise  the  list  of 
names  was  sufficient  evidence  that  this  first 


82  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

ball  of  the  season  had  been  a  particularly 
ambitious  affair. 

Sylvia  was  standing  alone  in  the  dining- 
room  while  Harboro  frowned  darkly  over  the 
list  of  names  before  him.  The  physical  Syl- 
via was  in  the  dining-room;  but  her  mind 
was  up  on  the  balcony  with  Harboro.  She 
was  watching  him  as  he  scowled  at  the  first 
page  of  the  Guide,  But  if  chagrin  was  the 
essence  of  the  thing  that  bothered  Harboro, 
something  far  deeper  caused  Sylvia  to  stand 
like  a  slim,  slumbering  tree.  She  was  fright- 
ened. Harboro  would  begin  to  ask  why  ? 
And  he  was  a  man.  He  would  guess  the 
reason.  He  would  begin  to  realize  that  mere 
obscurity  on  the  part  of  his  wife  was  not 
enough  to  explain  the  fact  that  the  town 
refused  to  recognize  her  existence.  And 
then  .  .  .  ? 

Antonia  spoke  to  her  once  and  again  with- 
out being  heard.  Would  the  senora  have  the 
roast  put  on  the  table  now,  or  would  she  wait 
until  the  seiior  came  down-stairs .?  She  de- 
cided for  herself,  bringing  in  the  roast  with  an 
entirely  erroneous  belief  that  she  was  mov- 
ing   briskly.     An    ancient    Mexican    woman 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  83 

knows  very  well  what  the  early  months  of 
marriage  are.  There  is  a  flame,  and  then 
there  are  ashes.  Then  the  ashes  must  be 
removed  by  mutual  effort  and  embers  are 
discovered.  ,,  Then  life  is  good  and  may  run 
along  without  any  annoyances. 

When  the  seiior  went  up-stairs  with  scarcely 
a  word  to  the  senora,  Antonia  looked  within, 
seeming  to  notice  nothing.  But  to  herself 
she  was  saying:  "The  time  of  ashes.'*  The 
bustle  of  the  domestic  life  was  good  at  such 
a  time.     She  brought  in  the  roast. 

Harboro,  with  the  keen  senses  of  a  healthy 
man  who  is  hungry,  knew  that  the  roast  had 
been  placed  on  the  table,  but  he  did  not  stir. 
The  Guide  had  slipped  from  his  knee  to  the 
floor,  and  he  was  looking  away  to  the  darken- 
ing tide  of  the  Rio  Grande.  He  had  looked 
at  his  problem  from  every  angle,  and  now  he 
was  coming  to  a  conclusion  which  did  him 
credit. 

.  .  .  They  had  not  been  invited  to  the 
ball.  Well,  what  had  he  done  that  people 
who  formerly  had  gone  out  of  their  way  to 
be  kind  to  him  should  ignore  him.?  (It  did 
not  occur  to  him  for  an  instant  that  the  cause 


84  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

lay  with  Sylvia.)  He  was  not  a  conceited 
man,  but  ...  an  eligible  bachelor  must,  cer- 
tainly, be  regarded  more  interestedly  than  a 
man  with  a  wife,  particularly  in  a  community 
where  the  young  women  were  blooming  and 
eligible  men  were  scarce.  They  had  drawn 
him  into  their  circle  because  they  had  re- 
garded him  as  a  desirable  husband  for  one 
of  their  young  women.  He  remembered  now 
how  the  processes  of  the  social  mill  had 
brought  him  up  before  this  young  woman  and 
that  until  he  had  met  them  all:  how,  often, 
he  had  found  himself  having  a  tete-d'tete  with 
some  kindly  disposed  girl  whom  he  never 
would  have  thought  of  singling  out  for  special 
attention.  He  hadn't  played  their  game. 
He  might  have  remained  a  bachelor  and  all 
would  have  been  well.  There  would  always 
have  been  the  chance  of  something  happening. 
But  he  had  found  a  wife  outside  their  circle. 
He  had,  in  effect,  snubbed  them  before  they 
had  snubbed  him.  He  remembered  now  how 
entirely  absorbed  he  had  been  in  his  affair 
with  Sylvia,  and  how  the  entire  community 
had  become  a  mere  indistinct  background 
during  those  days  when  he  walked  with  her 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  85 

and  planned  their  future.  There  wasn't  any 
occasion  for  him  to  feel  offended.  He  had  ig- 
nored the  town — and  the  town  had  paid  him 
back  in  his  own  coin. 

He  had  conquered  his  black  mood  entirely 
when  Sylvia  came  up  to  him.  She  regarded 
him  a  moment  timidly,  and  then  she  put  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up  at  her 
with  the  alert  kindliness  which  she  had  learned 
to  prize. 

"Fm  afraid  you're  fearfully  disappointed," 
she  said. 

"I  was.  But  I'm  not  now."  He  told  her 
what  his  theory  was,  putting  it  into  a  few 
detached  words.  But  she  understood  and 
brightened  immediately. 

'*Do  you  suppose  that's  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  else  could  it  be?"  He  arose. 
"Isn't  Antonia  ready?" 

"I  think  so.  And  there  are  so  many  ways 
for  us  to  be  happy  without  going  to  their  silly 
affairs.  Imagine  getting  any  pleasure  out  of 
sitting  around  watching  a  girl  trying  to  get 
a  man!  That's  all  they  amount  to,  those 
things.  We'll  get  horses  and  ride.  It's  ever 
so  much  more  sensible." 


86  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

She  felt  like  a  culprit  let  out  of  prison  as 
she  followed  him  down  into  the  dining-room. 
For  the  moment  she  was  no  longer  the  fatalist, 
foreseeing  inevitable  exposure  and  punish- 
ment. Nothing  had  come  of  their  meeting 
with  Peterson — an  incident  which  had  taken 
her  wholly  by  surprise,  and  which  had  threat- 
ened for  an  instant  to  result  disastrously. 
She  had  spent  wakeful  hours  as  a  result  of 
that  meeting;  but  the  cloud  of  apprehension 
had  passed,  leaving  her  sky  serene  again. 
And  now  Harboro  had  put  aside  the  incident 
of  the  Mesquite  Club  ball  as  if  it  did  not  in- 
volve anything  more  than  a  question  of  pique. 

She  took  her  place  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
and  propped  her  face  up  in  her  hands  while 
Harboro  carved  the  roast.  Why  shouldn't 
she  hope  that  the  future  was  hers,  to  do  with 
as  she  would — or,  at  least,  as  she  could  ? 
That  her  fate  now  lay  in  her  own  hands,  and 
not  in  every  passing  wind  of  circumstance, 
seemed  possible,  even  probable.     If  only  .  .  . 

A  name  came  into  her  mind  suddenly;  a 
name  carved  In  jagged,  sinister  characters. 
If  only  Fectnor  would  stay  away  off  there  in 
the  City. 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  87 

She  did  not  know  why  that  name  should 
have  occurred  to  her  just  now  to  plague  her. 
Fectnor  was  an  evil  bird  of  passage  who  had 
come  and  gone.  Such  creatures  had  no  fixed 
course.  He  had  once  told  her  that  only  a 
fool  ever  came  back  the  way  he  had  gone. 
He  belonged  to  the  States,  somewhere,  but 
he  would  come  back  by  way  of  El  Paso,  if 
he  ever  came  back;  or  he  would  drift  over 
toward  Vera  Cruz  or  Tampico. 

Fectnor  was  one  of  those  who  had  trod 
that  path  through  the  mesquite  to  Sylvia's 
back  door  in  the  days  which  were  ended. 
But  he  was  different  from  the  others.  He 
was  a  man  who  was  lavish  with  money — but 
he  expected  you  to  pick  it  up  out  of  the  dust. 
He  was  of  violent  moods;  and  he  had  that 
audacity — ^that  taint  of  insanity,  perhaps — 
which  enables  some  men  to  maintain  the 
reputation  of  bad  men,  of  "killers,"  in  every 
frontier.  When  Fectnor  had  come  he  had 
seemed  to  assume  the  right  of  prior  possession, 
and  others  had  yielded  to  him  without  ques- 
tion. Indeed,  it  was  usually  known  when  the 
man  was  in  town,  and  during  these  periods 
none  came  to  Sylvia's  door  save  one.     He 


88  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

even  created  the  impression  that  all  others 
were  poachers,  and  that  they  had  better  be 
wary  of  him.  She  had  been  afraid  of  him 
from  the  first;  and  it  had  seemed  to  her  that 
her  only  cross  was  removed  when  she  heard 
that  Fectnor  had  got  a  contract  down  in  the 
interior  arid  had  gone  away.  That  had  hap- 
pened a  good  many  months  ago;  and  Sylvia 
remembered  now,  with  a  feeling  as  of  an  icy 
hand  on  her  heart,  that  if  her  relationships 
with  many  of  the  others  in  those  old  days 
were  innocent  enough — or  at  best  marred  only 
by  a  kindly  folly — there  had  been  that  in  her 
encounters  with  Fectnor  which  would  forever 
damn  her  in  Harboro's  eyes,  if  the  truth  ever 
reached  him.  He  would  have  the  right  to 
call  her  a  bad  woman;  and  if  the  word  seemed 
fantastic  and  unreal  to  her,  she  knew  that  it 
would  not  seem  so  to  Harboro. 

If  only  Fectnor  .  .  . 

She  winked  quickly  two  or  three  times,  as 
if  she  had  been  dreaming.  Antonia  had  set 
her  plate  before  her,  and  the  aroma  of  the 
roast  was  in  her  nostrils.  Harboro  was  re- 
garding her  serenely,  affectionately. 


CHAPTER  IX 

They  were  happier  than  ever,  following 
that  adjusting  episode. 

Harboro  felt  that  his  place  had  been  as- 
signed to  him,  and  he  was  satisfied.  He 
would  have  to  think  of  ways  of  affording 
diversion  for  Sylvia,  of  course;  but  that  could 
be  managed,  and  in  the  meantime  she  seemed 
disposed  to  prolong  the  rapturous  and  suffi- 
cient joys  of  their  honeymoon.  He  would  be 
on  the  lookout,  and  when  the  moment  of  re- 
action came  he  would  be  ready  with  sugges- 
tions. She  had  spoken  of  riding.  There 
would  be  places  to  go.  The  bailes  out  at  the 
Quemado;  weddings  far  out  in  the  chaparral. 
Many  Americans  attended  these  affairs  in  a 
spirit  of  adventure,  and  the  ride  was  always 
delightful.  There  was  a  seduction  in  the 
desert  winds,  in  the  low-vaulted  skies  with 
their  decorative  schemes  of  constellations. 

He  was  rather  at  a  loss  as  to  how  to  meet 
the  people  who  had  made  a  fellow  of  him. 
There  was  Dunwoodie,  for  example.    He  ran 

89 


90  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

into  Dunwoodie  one  morning  on  his  way  to 
work,  and  the  good  fellow  had  stopped  him 
with  an  almost  too  patent  friendliness. 

"  Come,  stop  long  enough  to  have  a  drink,^' 
said  Dunwoodie,  blushing  without  apparent 
cause  and  shaking  Harboro  awkwardly  by 
the  hand.  And  then,  as  if  this  blunt  invita- 
tion might  prove  too  transparent,  he  added: 
"I  was  in  a  game  last  night,  and  Fm  needing 
one." 

There  was  no  need  for  Dunwoodie  to  ex- 
plain his  desire  for  a  drink — or  his  disinclina- 
tion to  drink  alone.  Harboro  saw  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary  in  the  invitation;  but 
unfortunately  he  responded  before  he  had 
quite  taken  the  situation  into  account. 

"It's  pretty  early  for  me,''  he  said.  "An- 
other time — if  you'll  excuse  me." 

It  was  to  be  regretted  that  Harboro's  man- 
ner seemed  a  trifle  stiff;  and  Dunwoodie  read 
uncomfortable  meanings  into  that  refusal. 
He  never  repeated  the  invitation;  and  others, 
hearing  of  the  incident,  concluded  that  Har- 
boro was  too  deeply  offended  by  what  the 
town  had  done  to  him  to  care  for  anybody's 
friendship   any   more.     The   thing   that   the 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  91 

town  had  done  to  Harboro  was  like  an  open 
page  to  everybody.  Indeed,  the  people  of 
Eagle  Pass  knew  that  Harboro  had  been 
counted  out  of  eligible  circles  considerably 
before  Harboro  knew  it  himself. 

As  for  Sylvia,  contentment  overspread  her 
like  incense.  She  was  to  have  Harboro  all 
to  herself,  and  she  was  not  to  be  required  to 
run  the  gantlet  of  the  town's  too-knowing 
eyes.  She  felt  safe  in  that  house  on  the 
Quemado  Road,  and  she  hoped  that  she  now 
need  not  emerge  from  it  until  old  menaces 
were  passed,  and  people  had  come  and  gone, 
and  she  could  begin  a  new  chapter. 

She  was  somewhat  annoyed  by  her  father 
during  those  days.  He  sent  messages  by 
Antonia.  Why  didn't  she  come  to  see  him  ? 
She  was  happy,  yes.  But  could  she  forget 
her  old  father?  Was  she  that  kind  of  a 
daughter  ?  Such  was  the  substance  of  the 
messages  which  reached  her. 

She  would  not  go  to  see  him.  She  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  entering  his  house.  She 
had  been  homesick  occasionally — ^that  she 
could  not  deny.  There  had  been  moments 
when  the  new  home  oppressed  her  by  its  or- 


92  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

derliness,  by  its  strangeness.  And  she  was 
fond  of  her  father.  She  supposed  she  ought 
not  to  be  fond  of  him;  he  had  always  been  a 
worthless  creature.  But  such  matters  have 
little  to  do  with  the  law  of  cause  and  effect. 
She  loved  him — there  was  the  truth,  and  it 
could  not  be  ignored.  But  with  every  pass- 
ing day  the  house  under  the  mesquite-tree 
assumed  a  more  terrible  aspect  in  her  eyes, 
and  the  house  on  the  Quemado  Road  became 
more  familiar,  dearer. 

Unknown  to  Harboro,  she  sent  money  to 
her  father.  He  had  intimated  that  if  she 
could  not  come  there  were  certain  needs  .  .  . 
there  was  no  work  to  be  obtained,  seemingly. 
.  .  .  And  so  the  money  which  she  might 
have  used  for  her  own  pleasure  went  to  her 
father.  She  was  not  unscrupulous  in  this 
matter.  She  did  not  deceive  Harboro.  She 
merely  gave  to  her  father  the  money  which 
Harboro  gave  her,  and  which  she  was  ex- 
pected to  use  without  explaining  how  it  was 
spent. 

With  the  passing  of  days  she  ceased  to 
worry  about  those  messages  of  her  father — 
she  ceased  to  regard  them  as  reminders  that 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  93 

the  tie  between  her  old  life  and  the  new  was 
not  entirely  broken.  And  following  the  in- 
creased assurances  of  her  safety  in  Harboro's 
house  and  heart,  she  began  to  give  rein  to 
some  of  the  coquetries  of  her  nature. 

She  became  an  innocent  siren,  studying 
ways  of  bewitchment,  of  endearment.  She 
became  a  bewildering  revelation  to  him, 
amazing  him,  delighting  him.  After  he  had 
begun  to  conclude  that  he  knew  her  she  be- 
came not  one  woman,  but  a  score  of  women: 
demure,  elfin,  pensive,  childlike,  sedate,  aloof, 
laughing — but  always  with  her  delight  in  him 
unconcealed:  the  mask  she  wore  always 
slipping  from  its  place  to  reveal  her  eagerness 
to  draw  closer  to  him,  and  always  closer. 

The  evenings  were  beginning  to  be  cool, 
and  occasionally  she  enticed  him  after  night- 
fall into  the  room  he  had  called  her  boudoir. 
She  drew  the  blinds  and  played  the  infinitely 
varied  game  of  love  with  him.  She  asked 
him  to  name  some  splendid  lover,  some  famous 
courtier.  Ingomar  ?  Very  well,  he  should  be 
Ingomar.  What  sort  of  lover  was  he .?  .  .  . 
And  forthwith  her  words,  her  gestures  and 
touches  became  as  chains  of  flowers  to  lead 


94  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

him  to  do  her  bidding.  Napoleon  ?  She  sa- 
luted him,  and  marched  prettily  before  him 
— and  halted  to  claim  her  reward  in  kisses. 
He  was  Antony  and  Leander. 

When  she  climbed  on  his  knees  with  kisses 
for  Leander  he  pretended  to  be  surprised. 
"More  kisses?''  he  asked. 

"But  these  are  the  first.'* 

"And  those  other  kisses  ?" 

"They  ?    Oh,  they  were  for  Antony." 

"Ah,  but  if  you  have  kissed  Antony,  Lean- 
der does  not  want  your  kisses." 

Her  face  seemed  to  fade  slightly,  as  if  cer- 
tain lights  had  been  extinguished.  She  with- 
drew a  little  from  him  and  did  not  look  at 
him.  "Why.?"  she  asked  presently.  The 
gladness  had  gone  out  of  her  voice. 

"Well  .  .  .  kisses  should  be  for  one  lover; 
not  for  two." 

She  pondered,  and  turned  to  him  with  an 
air  of  triumph.  "But  you  see,  these  are 
new  kisses  for  Leander.  They  are  entirely 
different.  They've  never  been  given  be- 
fore. They've  got  nothing  to  do  with  the 
others." 

He  pretended  to  be  convinced.     But  the 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  95 

kisses  she  gave  to  Leander  were  less  rapturous. 
She  was  thinking. 

"Fm  afraid  you  don't  think  so  highly 
of  .  .  .  Leander/'  he  suggested.  ^'Suppose 
I  be  .  .  .  Samson?" 

She  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder  as  if 
she  had  grown  tired. 

"Samson  was  a  very  strong  man,"  he  ex- 
plained. "He  could  push  a  house  down." 
That  interested  her. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  Samson  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  it  might  be  nice  .  .  .  but  no — 
the  woman  who  kissed  Samson  betrayed  him. 
I  think  I  won't  be  Samson,  after  all." 

She  had  been  nervously  fingering  the  neck- 
lace of  gold  beads  at  her  throat;  and  suddenly 
she  uttered  a  distressed  cry.  The  string  had 
broken,  and  the  beads  fell  in  a  yellow  shower 
to  the  rug. 

She  climbed  down  on  her  knees  beside  him 
and  picked  up  the  beads,  one  by  one. 

"Let  them  go,"  he  urged  cheerfully,  noting 
her  distress.  "Come  back.  I'll  be  anybody 
you  choose.     Even  Samson." 

That  extinguished  light  seemed  to  have 
been  turned  on  again.     She  looked  up  at  him 


96  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

smiling.  "No,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  Sam- 
son," she  said.  ''And  I  don't  want  to  lose 
my  beads." 

He  regarded  her  happily.  She  looked  very 
little  and  soft  there  on  the  rug.  "You  look 
like  a  kitten,"  he  declared. 

She  picked  up  the  last  bead  and  looked  at 
the  unstable  baubles  in  her  pink  left  palm. 
She  tilted  her  hand  so  that  they  rolled  back 
and  forth.  "Could  a  kitten  look  at  a  king  ?" 
she  asked  with  mock  earnestness. 

"I  should  think  it  could,  if  there  happened 
to  be  any  king  about." 

She  continued  to  make  the  beads  roll  about 
on  her  hand.  "I'm  going  to  be  a  kitten," 
she  declared  with  decision.  "Would  you  like 
me  to  be  a  kitten.?"  She  raised  herself  on 
her  knees  and  propped  her  right  hand  behind 
her  on  the  rug  for  support.  She  was  looking 
earnestly  into  his  eyes. 

"If  you'd  like  to  be,"  he  replied. 

"Hold  your  hand,"  she  commanded.  She 
poured  the  beads  into  his  immense,  hard 
palm.  "Don't  spill  them."  She  turned 
about  on  the  rug  on  hands  and  knees,  and 
crept  away  to  the  middle  of  the  floor.     She 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  97 

turned  and  arose  to  her  knees,  and  rested  both 
hands  before  her  on  the  floor.  She  held  her 
head  high  and  meowed  twice  so  realistically 
that  Harboro  leaned  forward,  regarding  her 
with  wonder.  She  lowered  herself  and  turned 
and  crept  to  the  window.  There  she  Hfted 
herself  a  little  and  patted  the  tassel  which 
hung  from  the  blind.  She  continued  this  with 
a  certain  sedateness  and  concentration  until 
the  tassel  went  beyond  her  reach  and  caught 
in  the  curtain.  Then  she  let  herself  down 
again,  and  crawled  to  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Now  she  was  on  her  knees,  her  hands  on  the 
floor  before  her,  her  body  as  erect  as  she  could 
hold  it.  Again  she  meowed — this  time  with 
a  certain  ennui;  and  finally  she  raised  one 
arm  and  rubbed  it  slowly  to  and  fro  behind 
her  ear.  .  .  .  She  quickly  assumed  a  defen- 
sive attitude,  crouching  fiercely.  An  imag- 
inary dog  had  crossed  her  path.  She  made 
an  explosive  sound  with  her  lips.  She  re- 
gained her  tranquillity,  staring  with  slowly 
returning  complacency  and  contempt  while 
the  imaginary  dog  disappeared. 

Harboro  did  not  speak.     He  looked  on  in 
amazed  silence  to  see  what  she  would  do  next. 


98  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

His  swarthy  face  was  too  sphinx-like  to  ex- 
press pleasure,  yet  he  was  not  displeased. 
He  was  thinking:  She  is  a  child — but  what 
an  extraordinary  child ! 

She  crawled  toward  him  and  leaned  against 
his  leg.     She  was  purring! 

Harboro  stooped  low  to  see  how  she  did  it, 
but  her  hair  hid  her  lips  from  him. 

He  seized  her  beneath  the  arms  and  lifted 
her  until  her  face  was  on  a  level  with  his. 
He  regarded  her  almost  uncomfortably. 

"Don't  you  like  me  to  be  a  kitten  ?"  She 
adjusted  her  knees  on  his  lap  and  rested  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders.  She  regarded  him 
gravely. 

"Well  ...  a  kitten  gets  to  be  a  cat,"  he 
suggested. 

She  pulled  one  end  of  his  long  mustache, 
regarding  him  intently.  "Oh,  a  cat.  But 
this  is  a  different  kind  of  a  kitten  entirely. 
It's  got  nothing  to  do  with  cats."  She  held 
her  head  on  one  side  and  pulled  his  mustache 
slowly  through  her  fingers.  "It  won't  curl," 
she  said. 

"No,  I'm  not  the  curly  sort  of  man." 

She  considered  that.     It  seemed  to  present 


THE  TIME  OF  FLAME  99 

an  idea  that  was  new  to  her.  "Anyway,  Fm 
glad  you're  a  big  fellow/* 

As  he  did  not  respond  to  this,  she  went  on: 
"Those  little  shrimps — you  couldn't  be  a 
kitten  with  them.  They  would  have  to  be 
puppies.  That's  the  only  fun  you  could 
have.'* 

"Sylvia!"  he  remonstrated.  He  adjusted 
her  so  that  she  sat  on  his  lap,  with  her  face 
against  his  throat.  He  was  recalling  that 
other  Sylvia:  the  Sylvia  of  the  dining-room, 
of  the  balcony;  the  circumspect,  sensible, 
comprehending  Sylvia.  But  the  discoveries 
he  was  making  were  not  unwelcome.  Folly 
wore  for  him  a  face  of  ecstasy,  of  beauty. 

As  she  nestled  against  him,  he  whispered : 
"Is  the  sandman  coming?" 

And  she  responded,  with  her  lips  against 
his  throat:   "Yes — if  you'll  carry  me." 

Antonia  was  wrong.  This  was  not  the 
time  of  ashes.     It  was  the  time  of  flame. 


PART  III 
FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE 


CHAPTER  X 

And  then  Fectnor  came. 

The  date  of  the  election  was  drawing  near, 
and  a  new  sheriff  was  to  be  jockeyed  into 
office  by  the  traditional  practice  of  corralling 
all  the  male  adult  Mexicans  who  could  be 
reached,  and  making  them  vote  just  so.  The 
voice  of  the  people  was  about  to  be  heard  in 
the  land. 

It  was  a  game  which  enjoyed  the  greatest 
popularity  along  the  border  in  those  years. 
Two  played  at  it:  the  opposing  candidates. 
And  each  built  him  a  corral  and  began  cap- 
turing Mexicans  two  or  three  days  before 
the  election. 

The  Mexicans  were  supposed  to  have  their 
abodes  (of  a  sort)  in  Maverick  County;  but 
there  was  nothing  conservative  in  the  rules 
under  which  the  game  was  played.  If  you 
could  get  a  consignment  of  voters  from 
Mexico  you  might  do  so,  resting  assured  that 
your  opponent  would  not  hesitate  to  fill  his 
corral  with  citizens  from  the  other  side  of  the 

river. 

103 


104  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

The  corrals  were  amazing  places.  Dis- 
pensers of  creature  comforts  were  engaged. 
Barbecued  meat  and  double  rations  of  mezcal 
were  provided.  Your  Mexican  voters,  held 
rigorously  as  prisoners,  were  in  a  state  of  col- 
lapse before  the  day  of  the  election.  They 
were  conveyed  in  carryalls  to  the  polls,  and 
heads  were  counted,  and  the  candidate  got 
credit  for  the  full  number  of  constituents  he 
had  dumped  out  into  the  sunshine. 

And  then  your  voter  disappeared  back  into 
the  chaparral,  or  over  the  Rio  Grande  bridge, 
and  pondered  over  the  insanity  of  the  gringos. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  process  touched 
upon  was  less  pleasant  than  simple.  Among 
the  constituents  in  the  corrals  there  was  often 
a  tendency  to  fight,  and  occasionally  a  stub- 
born fellow  had  a  clear  idea  that  he  wanted 
to  be  in  a  different  corral  from  the  one  in 
which  he  found  himself.  There  was  needed 
a  strong-handed  henchman  in  these  cases. 
Jesus  Mendoza  was  the  henchman  for  one 
faction,  but  the  other  faction  needed  a  hench- 
man, too. 

And  so  Fectnor  came. 

He  had  the  reputation  of  knowing  every 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    105 

Mexican  in  Maverick  County  and  in  the 
territory  immediately  contiguous  thereto. 
Many  of  them  had  been  members  of  his 
gangs  when  he  had  contracts  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Eagle  Pass.  He  knew  precisely  which 
of  them  could  be  depended  upon  to  remain 
docile  under  all  manner  of  indignity,  and 
which  of  them  had  a  bad  habit  of  placing  a 
sudden  check  on  their  laughter  and  lunging 
forward  with  a  knife.  They  knew  him,  too. 
They  feared  him.  They  knew  he  could  be 
coldly  brutal — an  art  which  no  Mexican  has 
ever  mastered.  The  politicians  knew  that 
getting  Fectnor  was  almost  equivalent  to  get- 
ting the  office.  It  was  more  economical  to 
pay  him  his  price  than  to  employ  uncertain 
aids  who  would  have  sold  their  services  much 
more  cheaply. 

Harboro  and  Sylvia  were  sitting  on  their 
balcony  the  second  night  before  the  election. 
A  warm  wind  had  been  blowing  and  it  was 
quite  pleasant  out  of  doors. 

One  of  the  corrals-  lay  not  far  from  the 
house  on  the  Quemado  Road.  Mounted  Mex- 
icans had  been  riding  past  the  house  and  on 
into  the  town  all  day,  and,  contrary  to  usual 


io6  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

custom,  they  were  not  to  be  seen  later  in  the 
day  returning  to  the  chaparral.  They  were 
being  prepared  to  exercise  their  suffrage  priv- 
ileges. 

As  Harboro  and  Sylvia  listened  it  was  to 
be  noted  that  over  in  the  corral  the  several 
noises  were  beginning  to  be  blended  in  one 
note.  The  barbecue  fires  were  burning  down; 
the  evening  meal  had  been  served,  with  re- 
served supplies  for  late  comers.  Mezcal  and 
cheap  whiskey  were  being  dispensed.  A  low 
hum  of  voices  arose,  with  the  occasional  up- 
lifting of  a  drunken  song  or  a  shout  of  anger. 

Suddenly  Harboro  sat  more  erect.  A  shout 
had  arisen  over  in  the  corral,  and  a  murmur 
higher  and  more  sinister  than  the  dominant 
note  of  the  place  grew  steadily  in  intensity. 
It  came  to  a  full  stop  when  a  pistol-shot  arose 
above  the  lesser  noises  like  a  sky-rocket. 

"He's  getting  his  work  in,"  commented 
Harboro.  He  spoke  to  himself.  He  had  for- 
gotten Sylvia  for  the  moment. 

"He?     Who.?"  inquired  Sylvia. 

He  turned  toward  her  in  the  dusk  and  re- 
plied— with  indifference  in  his  tone  now — 
"Fectnor." 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    107 

She  shrank  back  so  that  her  face  would  be 
out  of  his  Hne  of  vision.  "Fectnor!"  she 
echoed. 

"A  fellow  they've  brought  up  from  the  in- 
terior to  help  with  the  election.  A  famous 
bad  man,  I  believe." 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  interval.  Har- 
boro  supposed  the  matter  did  not  interest 
her;  but  she  asked  at  length:  "You  know 
him,  then?" 

"Only  by  reputation.  A  fellow  with  a  lot 
of  bluff,  I  think.  I  don't  believe  very  much 
in  bad  men.  He's  managed  to  terrify  the 
Mexicans  somehow  or  other."  He  had  not 
noticed  that  her  voice  had  become  dull  and 
low. 

"Fectnor!"  she  breathed  to  herself.  She 
rocked  to  and  fro,  and  after  a  long  interval, 
"Fectnor!"  she  repeated. 

He  hitched  his  chair  so  that  he  could  look 
at  her.  Her  prolonged  silence  was  unusual. 
"Are  you  getting  chilly?"  he  asked  solici- 
tously. 

"It  does  seem  chilly,  doesn't  it?"  she  re- 
sponded. 

They  arose  and  went  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Antonia  went  marketing  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  when  she  came  back  Sylvia  met  her 
with  fearful,  inquiring  eyes.  She  was  ter- 
ribly uneasy,  and  she  was  one  of  those  crea- 
tures who  must  go  more  than  half-way  to 
meet  impending  danger.  She  was  not  at  all 
surprised  when  Antonia  handed  her  a  sealed 
envelope. 

The  old  servant  did  not  linger  to  witness 
the  reading  of  that  written  message.  She 
possessed  the  discretion  of  her  race,  of  her 
age.  The  seiiora  had  been  married  quite 
a  time  now.  Doubtless  there  were  old 
friends  .  .  . 

And  Sylvia  stood  alone,  reading  the  sprawl- 
ing lines  which  her  father  had  written: 

^'  Fectnor^s  here.  He  wants  to  see  you.  Bet- 
ter come  down  to  the  house.  You  know  he's  likely 
to  make  trouble  if  he  doesnh  have  his  wayj^ 

She  spelled  out  the  words  with  contracted 
brows;  and  then  for  the  moment  she  became 

io8 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    109 

still  another  Sylvia.  She  tore  the  missive 
into  bits.  She  was  pale  with  rage — rage 
which  was  none  the  less  obsessing  because  it 
had  in  it  the  element  of  terror.  Her  father 
dared  to  suggest  such  a  thing!  It  would 
have  been  bad  enough  if  Fectnor  had  sent 
the  summons  himself;  but  for  her  father  to 
unite  with  him  against  her  in  such  an  affair ! 

She  tried  to  calm  herself,  succeeding  but 
illy.  "Antonia!"  she  called.  ''Antonia!" 
For  once  her  voice  was  unlovely,  her  expres- 
sion was  harsh. 

The  startled  old  woman  came  with  quite 
unprecedented  alacrity. 

"Antonia,  where  did  you  see  my  father.?" 

"On  the  street.  He  seemed  to  have  waited 
for  me.'* 

"Very  well.  You  must  find  him  again. 
It  doesn't  matter  how  long  you  search.  I 
want  you  to  find  him.'* 

She  hurriedly  framed  a  response  to  that 
note  of  her  father's: 

"/  will  not  come.  Tell  Fectnor  I  never  will 
see  him  again.     He  will  not  dare  to  harm  me.** 

As  she  placed  this  cry  of  defiance  into  an 
envelope  and  sealed  and  addressed  it  certain 


no  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

words  of  Harboro's  came  back  to  her.  That 
night  of  their  wedding  he  had  Hfted  her  in 
his  powerful  arms  and  had  given  her  a  man's 
assurance:  "I  mean  that  you're  to  have  all 
the  help  you  want — that  you're  to  look  to 
me  for  your  strength." 

She  reasoned  shrewdly:  Harboro  wasn't 
the  sort  of  man  people  would  tell  things  to — 
about  her.  They  would  know  what  to  ex- 
pect: intense  passion,  swift  punishment. 

And  yet  as  she  watched  Antonia  go  away 
down  the  road,  suggesting  supine  submission 
rather  than  a  friend  in  need,  her  heart  failed 
her.  Had  she  done  wisely.?  Fectnor  had 
never  stepped  aside  for  any  man.  He  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  none  must  deny  him 
the  things  he  wanted.  He  seemed  an  insane 
creature  when  you  thwarted  him.  There  was 
something  terrible  about  his  rages. 

She  imagined  seemingly  impossible  things: 
that  Fectnor  would  come  to  the  house — per- 
haps while  Harboro  was  there.  He  might  kill 
Harboro. 

Alas,  the  evil  she  had  done  in  those  other 
days  loomed  before  her  now  in  its  true  light: 
not   merely   as   evil   deeds,   definitely   ended 


FECTNOR,  THE   PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    in 

with  their  commission,  but  as  fearful  forces 
that  went  on  existing,  to  visit  her  again  and 
destroy  her. 

She  began  to  hope  that  Fectnor  would 
actually  come  to  her — now,  before  Harboro 
came  home.  At  the  worst  she  might  save 
Harboro;  and  there  was  even  a  chance  that 
she  could  make  Fectnor  see  her  position  as 
she  saw  it — that  she  could  persuade  him  to 
be  merciful  to  her.  Surely  for  the  sake  of 
security  and  peace  in  all  the  years  that  lay 
before  her.  ...  A  definite  purpose  dawned 
in  her  eyes.  She  went  to  her  room  and  began 
deliberately  to  choose  her  most  becoming 
street  costume. 

She  was  ready  to  go  out  when  Antonia  re- 
turned. 

"Did  you  find  him .?"  she  asked. 

Yes,  the  old  woman  had  found  him  and  de- 
livered the  message.  He  had  sent  no  word 
in  return;  he  had  only  glared  at  the  bearer  of 
the  message  and  had  cursed  her. 

*' Well,  never  mind,"  said  Sylvia  soothingly. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  it  must  be  a  sad  thing 
to  be  an  old  woman,  and  a  Mexican,  and  to 
have  to  serve   as  the  wire  over  which  the 


112  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

electric  current  flowed — and  to  feel  only  the 
violence  of  the  current  without  comprehend- 
ing the  words  it  carried. 

And  now  to  find  Fectnor — for  this  was  what 
she  meant  to  do. 

She  would  see  him  on  the  street,  where 
publicity  would  protect  her,  even  if  there 
were  no  friends  to  take  her  part.  She  would 
see  him  on  the  street  and  explain  why  she 
could  not  meet  him  any  more,  why  he  must 
not  ask  it.  Certainly  it  would  not  look  very 
well  for  her  to  be  seen  talking  to  him;  but 
she  could  not  help  that.  She  would  be  going 
out  to  do  a  little  shopping,  ostensibly,  and 
she  would  hope  to  encounter  him  on  the  street, 
either  coming  or  going. 

However,  her  earnest  planning  proved  to 
be  of  no  avail.  Fectnor  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

She  walked  rather  leisurely  through  the 
town — moving  barely  fast  enough  to  avoid 
the  appearance  of  loitering.  She  walked  cir- 
cumspectly enough,  seemingly  taking  little 
interest  in  events  or  individuals.  That  she 
was  keenly  on  the  alert  for  one  familiar  face 
no  one  would  have  guessed. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    113 

She  got  quite  to  the  end  of  the  main  street, 
and  then  she  halted  in  painful  uncertainty. 
If  she  turned  back  now  she  would  have  to 
go  on  steadily  back  to  her  home,  save  for  a 
brief  stop  at  one  of  the  stores,  or  else  betray 
the  fact  to  any  who  might  be  curiously  ob- 
serving her  that  she  was  on  the  street  on 
some  secret  mission. 

She  stood  for  a  space,  trying  to  decide  what 
to  do.  Often  before  she  had  stood  on  that 
very  spot  to  view  the  picture  which  men  and 
the  desert  had  painted  on  a  vast  canvas  down 
toward  the  river.  She  occupied  a  point  of 
vantage  at  the  top  of  a  long  flight  of  stone 
steps,  broken  and  ancient,  leading  down  to 
the  Rio  Grande  and  its  basin.  Along  the 
water's  edge  in  the  distance,  down  in  the 
depths  below  her,  ancient  Mexican  women 
were  washing  garments  by  a  process  which 
must  have  been  old  in  Pharaoh's  time:  by 
spreading  them  on  clean  rocks  and  kneading 
them  or  applying  brushes.  The  river  flowed 
placidly;  the  sunlight  enveloped  water  and 
rock  and  shore  and  the  patient  women  bend- 
ing over  their  tasks.  Nineveh  or  Tyre  might 
have  presented  just  such  a  picture  of  burdened 


114  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

women,  concealing  no  one  might  say  what 
passions  and  fires  under  an  exterior  which 
suggested  docility  or  the  unkind  pressure  of 
tradition's  hand  or  even  hopelessness. 

But  Sylvia  scarcely  saw  the  picture  now. 
She  was  recalling  the  words  she  had  written 
in  that  message  to  her  father.  If  only  she 
had  not  defied  Fectnor;  if  only  she  had  made 
a  plea  for  pity,  or  suggested  a  fear  of  her 
husband — or  if  she  hadn't  sent  any  answer 
at  all! 

It  occurred  to  her  that  the  exposure  which 
menaced  her  was  as  nothing  to  the  perils  to 
which  she  had  subjected  Harboro.  She  knew 
instinctively  that  Harboro  was  not  a  man  to 
submit  to  deliberate  injury  from  any  source. 
He  would  defend  himself  in  the  face  of  any 
danger;  he  would  defend  that  which  belonged 
to  him.  And  Fectnor  was  cruel  and  unscru- 
pulous and  cunning.  He  knew  how  to  pro- 
voke quarrels  and  to  gain  advantages. 

She  grew  cold  at  the  thought  of  losing  Har- 
boro. The  inevitable  consequences  of  such  a 
loss  occurred  to  her.  She  would  have  to  sub- 
mit always  to  Fectnor  as  long  as  he  willed  it. 
And  afterward  . . .  Ah,  she  must  find  Fectnor ! 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    115 

She  retraced  her  steps.  At  a  shop  where 
silks  were  sold  she  entered.  She  asked  for  a 
piece  of  ribbon.  A  particular  shade  of  blue; 
she  could  not  describe  it.  She  sat  on  a  stool 
at  the  counter  and  kept  an  eye  on  the  street. 
.  .  .  No,  something  darker  than  that,  some- 
thing less  lustrous.  She  examined  bolt  after 
bolt,  and  when  at  length  it  appeared  that  she 
was  quite  unwilling  to  be  pleased  she  made 
a  choice.  And  always  she  watched  the  street, 
hoping  that  Fectnor  would  pass. 

At  last  she  went  up  the  Quemado  Road, 
walking  disconsolately.  The  withered  im- 
mensity of  the  world  broke  her  spirit.  The 
vast  stricken  spaces  were  but  a  material  mani- 
festation of  those  cruelties  of  nature  which 
had  broken  her  long  ago,  and  which  could  not 
be  expected  to  withdraw  their  spell  now  that 
the  time  had  come  for  her  destruction. 

She  looked  far  before  her  and  saw  where 
the  Quemado  Road  attained  its  highest  point 
and  disappeared  on  the  other  side  of  a  ridge. 
A  house  stood  there,  lonely  and  serene.  She 
had  known  it  was  a  convent;  but  now  she 
observed  it  with  eyes  which  really  saw  it  for 
the  first  time.     It  had  looked  cool  even  dur- 


ii6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

ing  the  period  of  midsummer.  There  was 
shade — a  friendly  garden.  She  had  seen  the 
Mother  Superior  once  or  twice :  a  large,  elderly 
woman  who  wore  but  lightly  the  sedate  mien 
which  concealed  a  gentle  humanity. 

What  if  she,  Sylvia,  were  to  go  on  past 
her  own  house,  on  up  to  the  ridge,  and  ap- 
peal to  that  unworldly  woman  for  succor? 
Was  there  a  refuge  there  for  such  as  she  ? 

But  this  was  the  merest  passing  fancy. 
Where  the  tides  of  life  ran  high  she  had  been 
moulded;  here  in  the  open  she  would  meet 
her  end,  whatever  the  end  might  be. 

She  sat  inside  her  house  throughout  that 
long  day.  Beside  an  open  window  she  kept 
her  place,  staring  toward  Eagle  Pass,  her  eyes 
widening  whenever  a  figure  appeared  on  the 
highway. 

But  the  individual  she  feared — Fectnor, 
her  father,  a  furtive  messenger — did  not  ap- 
pear. 

Harboro  came  at  last:  Harboro,  bringing 
power  and  placidity. 

She  ran  out  to  the  gate  to  meet  him.  In- 
side the  house  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

He  marvelled  at  her  intensity.    He  held 


^A^. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    117 

her  a  long  moment  in  his  embrace.  Then  he 
gazed  into  her  eyes  searchingly.  *' Every- 
thing is  all  right,"  he  said — the  words  being 
an  affirmation  rather  than  a  question.  He 
had  read  an  expression  of  dread  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  everything  is  all  right,"'  she  echoed. 
Ever3rthing  was  right  now.  She  seemed  to 
awaken  from  a  horrible  nightmare.  Har- 
boro's  presence  put  to  flight  an  army  of  fears. 
She  could  scarcely  understand  why  she  had 
been  so  greatly  disturbed.  No  harm  could 
come  to  him,  or  to  her.  He  was  too  strong, 
too  self-contained,  to  be  menaced  by  little 
creatures.  The  bigness  of  him,  the  pene- 
trating, kindly  candor  of  his  eyes,  would  par- 
alyze base  minds  and  violent  hands  seeking 
to  do  him  an  injury.  The  law  had  sanctioned 
their  union,  too — and  the  law  was  powerful. 

She  held  to  that  supporting  thought,  and 
during  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  was  un- 
troubled by  the  instinctive  knowledge  that 
even  the  law  cannot  make  right  what  the  in- 
dividual has  made  wrong. 

She  was  as  light-hearted  as  a  child  that 
night,  and  Harboro,  after  the  irksome  re- 
straints of  the  day,  rejoiced  in  her.     They 


ii8  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

played  at  the  game  of  love  again;  and  old 
Antonia,  in  her  place  down-stairs,  thought  of 
that  exchange  of  letters  and  darkly  pondered. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  election  came  and  went;  the  voice  of 
the  people  had  been  heard,  and  Maverick 
County  had  a  new  sheriff.  In  the  house  on 
the  Quemado  Road  Fectnor's  name  was  heard 
no  more. 

On  the  Saturday  night  following  the  elec- 
tion Harboro  came  home  and  found  a  letter 
waiting  for  him  on  the  table  in  the  hall.  He 
found  also  a  disquieted  Sylvia,  who  looked  at 
him  with  brooding  and  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

He  stopped  where  he  stood  and  read  the 
letter,  and  Sylvia  watched  with  parted  lips — 
for  she  had  recognized  the  handwriting  on  the 
envelope. 

Harboro's  brows  lowered  into  a  frown. 
"It's  from  your  father,"  he  said  finally,  lift- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  letter  and  regarding 
Sylvia. 

She  tried  to  achieve  an  effect  of  only  mild 
interest.  "What  can  he  have  to  write  to 
you  about .?"  she  asked. 

"Poor  fellow — it  seems  he's  been  ill.     Syl- 

119 


I20         CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

via,  how  long  has  it  been  since  you  visited 
your  father?" 

"Does  he  want  me  to  come  to  see  him  ?" 

"He  hints  at  that  pretty  strongly.  Yes, 
that's  really  the  substance  of  his  letter.'* 

"I've  never  been  back  since  we  were  mar- 
ried." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room.  Her 
manner  was  not  quite  responsive.  She  made 
Harboro  feel  that  this  was  a  matter  which 
did  not  concern  him. 

"But  isn't  that — doesn't  that  seem  rather 
neglectful?" 

She  drew  a  chair  away  from  the  table  and 
sat  down  facing  him.  "Yes,  it  does  seem  so. 
I  think  I've  hinted  that  I  wasn't  happy  in 
my  old  home  life;  but  I've  never  talked  very 
much  about  it.  I  ought  to  tell  you,  I  think, 
that  I  want  to  forget  all  about  it.  I  want  the 
old  relationship  broken  off  completely." 

Harboro  shook  his  head  with  decision. 
"That  won't  do,"  he  declared.  "Believe  me, 
you're  making  a  mistake.  You're  a  good  deal 
younger  than  I,  Sylvia,  and  it's  the  way  of 
the  young  to  believe  that  for  every  old  tie 
broken  a  new  one  can  be  formed.    At  your 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    121 

age  life  seems  to  have  an  abundance  of  every- 
thing. But  you'll  be  dismayed,  in  a  few 
years,  to  discover  that  most  things  come  to 
us  but  once,  and  that  nearly  all  the  best 
things  come  to  us  in  our  youth." 

He  stood  before  her  with  an  air  of  such 
quiet  conviction,  of  such  tranquil  certainty 
of  the  truth  of  what  he  said  that  she  could  not 
meet  his  glance.  She  had  placed  an  elbow 
on  the  table,  and  was  supporting  her  face  in 
her  hand.  Her  expression  was  strangely  In- 
scrutable to  the  man  who  looked  down  at 
her. 

"Your  father  must  be  getting  old.  If  you 
shouldn't  see  him  for  a  year  or  so,  you'd  be 
fearfully  grieved  to  note  the  evidences  of 
failure:  a  slight  stoop,  perhaps;  a  slower 
gait;  a  more  troubled  look  in  his  eyes.  I 
want  to  help  you  to  see  this  thing  clearly. 
And  some  day  you'll  get  word  that  he  is  dead 
— and  then  you'll  remember,  too  late,  how 
you  might  have  carried  little  joys  to  him, 
how  you  might  have  been  a  better  daugh- 
ter .  .  ." 

She  sprang  up,  shaking  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.     "I'll  go,"  she  said.     She  startled  Har- 


122  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

boro  by  that  note  of  despair  In  her  voice. 
"When  does  he  wish  me  to  come  ?'* 

"He  says  he  Is  III  and  alone.  I  think  he 
would  be  glad  If  I  could  persuade  you  to  go 
this  evening.     Why  not  this  evening?" 

Unfortunately,  Harboro  concealed  a  part  of 
the  truth  In  this.  Her  father  had  quite  def- 
initely asked  to  have  her  come  this  evening. 
But  Harboro  wished  her  to  feel  that  she  was 
acting  voluntarily,  that  she  was  choosing  for 
herself,  both  as  to  the  deed  and  as  to  the 
time  of  its  doing. 

And  Sylvia  felt  a  wave  of  relief  at  the  as- 
surance that  her  father  had  not  set  a  definite 
time.  Oh,  surely  the  letter  was  just  what  It 
purported  to  be — a  cry  of  loneliness  and  an 
honest  desire  to  see  her.  And  Sylvia  really 
loved  her  father.  There  was  that  In  her  na- 
ture which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
judge  him. 

"I  could  go  with  you,"  ventured  Harboro, 
"though  he  doesn't  say  anything  about  my 
coming.  IVe  felt  we  must  both  go  soon. 
Of  [course,  I  need  not  wait  for  an  invita- 
tion." 

But    Sylvia   opposed   this.     "If  he's   111,** 


FECTNOR,  THE   PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    123 

she  said,  "I  think  I  ought  to  go  alone  this 
time."  She  added  to  herself:  "I  don't  want 
him  ever  to  go.  I  must  make  him  beUeve 
that  enough  has  been  done  if  I  go  myself. 
I  must  convince  him  that  my  father  doesn't 
care  to  have  him  come." 

Nevertheless,  she  was  quite  resigned  to  the 
arrangement  that  had  been  made  for  her. 
She  helped  Antonia  make  the  final  prepara- 
tions for  supper,  and  she  set  off  down  the  road 
quite  cheerfully  after  they  arose  from  the 
table.  Harboro  watched  her  with  a  new  depth 
of  tenderness.  This  sweet  submission,  the 
quick  recognition  of  a  filial  duty  once  it  was 
pointed  out  to  her — here  were  qualities  which 
were  of  the  essence  of  that  childlike^  beauty 
which  is  the  highest  charm  in  women. 

And  Sylvia  felt  a  strange  eagerness  of  body 
and  mind  as  she  went  on  her  way.  She  had 
put  all  thought  of  the  house  under  the  mes- 
quite-tree  out  of  mind,  as  far  as  possible. 
Becoming  a  closed  book  to  her,  the  place  and 
certain  things  which  had  been  dear  to  her 
had  become  indistinct  in  her  memory.  Now 
that  she  was  about  to  reopen  the  book  various 
little  familiar  things  came  back  to  her  and 


124  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

filled  her  mind  with  eagerness.  The  tiny- 
canary  in  its  cage — ^it  would  remember  her. 
It  would  wish  to  take  a  bath,  to  win  her 
praise.  There  had  been  a  few  potted  plants, 
too;  and  there  would  be  the  familiar  pictures 
— even  the  furniture  she  had  known  from 
childhood  would  have  eloquent  messages  for 
her. 

This  was  the  frame  of  mind  she  was  in  as 
she  opened  her  father's  gate,  and  paused  for 
an  instant  to  recall  the  fact  that  here  she 
had  stood  when  Harboro  appeared  before  her 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  near  sundown  now, 
just  as  it  had  been  then;  and — ^yes,  the  goat- 
herd wasvthere  away  out  on  the  trail,  driving 
his  flock  home. 

She  turned  toward  the  house;  she  opened 
the  door  eagerly.  Her  eyes  were  beaming 
with  happiness. 

But  she  was  chilled  a  little  by  the  sight  of 
her  father.  Something  Harboro  had  said 
about  her  father  changing  came  back  to  her. 
He  had  changed — ^just  in  the  little  while  that 
had  elapsed  since  her  marriage.  But  the 
realization  of  what  that  change  was  hurt  her 
cruelly.     He  looked  mean  and  base  as  he  had 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE^S  ADVOCATE    125 

never  looked  before.  The  old  amiable  sub- 
mission to  adversities  had  given  place  to  an 
expression  of  petulance,  of  resentment,  of 
cunning,  of  cowardice.  Or  was  it  that  Sylvia 
was  looking  at  him  with  new  eyes  ? 

He  sat  just  inside  the  door,  by  a  window. 
He  was  in  a  rocking-chair,  and  his  hands  lay 
heavily  against  the  back  of  it.  He  had  a 
blanket  about  him,  as  if  he  were  cold.  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  strange  lack  of  respon- 
siveness when  she  entered  the  room. 

"I  got  your  message,"  she  said  affection- 
ately. "I  am  glad  you  let  me  know  you 
weren't  feeling  very  well.''  She  touched  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands  and  kissed  him.  "You 
are  cold,"  she  added,  as  if  she  were  answering 
the  question  that  had  occurred  to  her  at  sight 
of  the  blanket. 

She  sat  down  near  him,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak.  He  would  have  a  great  many  things 
to  say  to  her,  she  thought.  But  he  regarded 
her  almost  stolidly. 

"Your  marriage  seems  to  have  changed 
you,"  he  said  finally. 

"For  the  better,  I  hope!'* 

"Well,  that's  according  to  the  way  you 


126  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

look  at  it.  Cutting  your  old  father  cold  isn't 
for  the  better,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

She  did  not  resent  the  ungenerous  use  of 
that  phrase,  "old  father,"  though  she  could 
not  help  remembering  that  he  was  still  under 
fifty,  and  that  he  looked  young  for  his  years. 
It  was  just  one  of  his  mannerisms  in  speaking. 

"I  didn't  do  that,  you  know,"  she  said. 
"Being  married  seems  a  wonderful  adventure. 
There  is  so  much  that  is  strange  for  you  to 
get  used  to.  But  I  didn't  forget  you.  You've 
seen  Antonia — occasionally  .  .  .  ?" 

The  man  moved  his  head  so  that  it  lay  on 
one  side  against  the  chair-back.  "I  thought 
you'd  throw  that  up  to  me,"  he  complained. 

"Father!"  she  remonstrated.  She  was 
deeply  wounded.  It  had  not  been  her  father's 
way  to  make  baseless,  unjust  charges  against 
her.  Shiftless  and  blind  he  had  been;  but 
there  had  been  a  geniality  about  him  which 
had  softened  his  faults  to  one  who  loved  him. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  he  said,  in  a  less  bitter 
tone.  And  she  waited,  hoping  he  would  think 
of  friendlier  words  to  speak,  now  that  his  re- 
sentment had  been  voiced. 

But  he  seemed  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    127 

now.  She  might  have  been  a  stranger  to 
him.  She  looked  about  her  with  a  certain 
fond  expression  which  speedily  faded.  Some- 
how the  old  things  reminded  her  only  of  un- 
happiness.  They  were  meaner  than  she  had 
supposed  them  to  be.  Their  influence  over 
her  was  gone. 

She  brought  her  gaze  back  to  her  father. 
He  had  closed  his  eyes  as  if  he  were  weary; 
yet  she  discerned  in  the  lines  of  his  face  a 
hard  fixity  which  troubled  her,  alarmed  her. 
Though  his  eyes  were  closed  he  did  not  pre- 
sent a  reposeful  aspect.  There  was  some- 
thing really  sinister  about  that  alert  face  with 
its  closed  eyes — as  there  is  abouc  a  house  with 
its  blinds  drawn  to  hide  evil  enterprises. 

So  she  sat  for  interminable  minutes,  and  it 
seemed  to  Sylvia  that  she  was  not  surprised 
when  she  heard  the  sound  of  tapping  at  the 
back  door. 

She  was  not  surprised,  yet  a  feeling  of  en- 
gulfing horror  came  over  her  at  the  sound. 

Her  father  opened  his  eyes  now;  and  it 
seemed  really  that  he  had  been  resting.  "The 
boy  from  the  drug-store,"  he  said.  "They 
were  to  send  me  some  medicine." 


128  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

He  seemed  to  be  gathering  his  energies  to 
get  up  and  admit  the  boy  from  the  drug-store, 
but  Sylvia  sprang  to  her  feet  and  placed  a  re- 
straining hand  on  his  shoulder.  *'  Let  me  go/' 
she  said. 

There  was  an  expression  of  pity  and  con- 
cern for  her  father  in  her  eyes  when  she  got 
to  the  door  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch. 
She  was  too  absent-minded  to  observe  at 
first  that  the  bolt  had  been  moved  into  its 
place,  and  that  the  door  was  locked.  Her 
hand  had  become  strange  to  the  mechanism 
before  her,  and  she  was  a  little  awkward  in 
getting  the  bolt  out  of  the  way.  But  the  ex- 
pression of  pity  and  concern  was  still  in  her 
eyes  when  she  finally  pulled  the  door  toward 
her. 

And  then  she  seemed  to  have  known  all  the 
time  that  it  was  Fectnor  who  stood  there. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

He  slipped  past  her  into  the  room,  and  when 
she  uttered  a  forlorn  cry  of  defeat  and  shrank 
back  he  gripped  her  by  the  wrist.  Holding 
her  so,  he  turned  where  he  stood  and  locked 
the  door  again.  Then  he  crossed  the  room 
and  closed  and  bolted  that  other  door  which 
opened  into  the  room  where  Sylvia's  father  sat. 

Then  he  released  her  and  stood  his  ground 
stolidly  while  she  shrank  away  from  him, 
regarding  him  with  incredulous  questioning, 
with  black  terror.  She  got  the  impression 
that  he  believed  himself  to  have  achieved  a 
victory;  that  there  was  no  further  occasion 
for  him  to  feel  anxious  or  wary.  It  was  as  if 
the  disagreeable  beginning  to  a  profitable  en- 
terprise had  been  gotten  over  with.  And  that 
look  of  callous  complacence  was  scarcely  more 
terrifying  than  his  silence,  for  as  yet  he  had 
not  uttered  a  word. 

And  yet  Sylvia  could  not  regard  herself  as 

being   really   helpless.    That   door   into   her 

father's  room:  while  it  held,  her  father  could 

129 


I30  CHIXDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

not  come  to  her,  but  she  could  go  to  her  father. 
She  had  only  to  wait  until  Fectnor  was  off  his 
guard,  and  touch  the  bolt  and  make  her 
escape.  Yet  she  perceived  now,  that  for  all 
Fectnor's  seeming  complacence,  he  remained 
between  her  and  that  door. 

She  looked  about  for  other  means  of  escape; 
but  she  knew  immediately  that  there  was 
none.  Her  own  bedroom  opened  off  the  room 
in  which  she  was  now  trapped;  but  it  was  a 
mere  cubby-hole  without  an  outer  door  or 
even  a  window.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
room  there  was  a  window  looking  out  toward 
the  desert;  but  even  as  her  glance  sought 
relief  in  that  direction  she  remembered  that 
this  window,  of  only  half-sash  dimensions, 
was  nailed  into  its  place  and  was  immovable. 
Against  the  dusty  panes  a  bird-cage  hung, 
and  she  realized  with  an  oddly  ill-timed  pang 
of  sorrow  that  it  was  empty.  It  was  plain 
that  the  canary  had  died  during  her  absence; 
and  she  wondered  if  anything  in  all  the  world 
could  seem  so  empty  as  a  bird-cage  which  had 
once  had  an  occupant  and  had  lost  it.  The 
sunset  sky  beyond  that  empty  cage  and  the 
uncleaned  window-panes  caught  her  glance: 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE     131 

an  infinitely  far-oflf  drift  of  saffron  with  never 
a  moving  figure  between  it  and  the  window 
through  which  she  looked. 

Then  all  her  terrors  were  renewed  by  Fect- 
nor's  voice.  He  had  sauntered  to  a  small 
table  near  the  middle  of  the  room  and  sat 
down^  on  the  end  of  it,  after  shoving  a  chair 
in  Sylvia's  direction. 

''What's  the  matter  with  you,  Sylvia  ?'*  he 
demanded.  He  scarcely  seemed  angry:  im- 
patient would  be  the  word,  perhaps. 

Something  in  his  manner,  rather  than  his 
words,  wiped  out  that  chasm  of  time  that 
had  been  placed  between  them.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  talked  with  him  yesterday.  She 
felt  hideously  familiar  with  him — on  the  same 
mental  and  moral  plane  with  him. 

"I  am  married,"  she  said  shortly.  If  she 
had  thought  she  would  resort  to  parleying 
and  evasions,  she  now  had  no  intention  of 
doing  so.  It  seemed  inevitable  that  she 
should  talk  to  Fectnor  in  his  own  language. 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  your  mar- 
riage," he  said.  "A  bit  of  church  flummery. 
Use  your  brains,  Sylvia.  You  know  that 
couldn't  make  any  difference." 


132  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

"Fm  not  thinking  about  the  flummery. 
That  isn't  it.  It's  the  fact  that  I  love  the 
man  I  married." 

"All  very  well  and  good.  But  you  know 
you  used  to  love  me." 

"No,  I  never  did." 

"Oh,  yes  you  did.  You  just  forget.  At 
any  rate,  you  was  as  much  to  me  as  you  could 
ever  be  to  a  husband.  You  know  you  can't 
drop  me  just  because  it's  convenient  for  you 
to  take  up  with  somebody  else.  You  know 
that's  not  the  way  I'm  built.'* 

She  had  refused  to  use  the  chair  he  had 
shoved  toward  her.  She  stood  beside  it  a 
little  defiantly.  Now  she  looked  into  his 
eyes  with  a  kind  of  imperious  reasonableness. 
"Whatever  I  was  to  you,  Fectnor,"  she  said, 
"I  became  because  I  was  forced  into  it." 

"I  never  forced  you,"  he  responded  stoutly. 

"In  one  way,  you  didn't;  but  just  the 
same  .  .  .  you  had  both  hands  reached  out 
to  seize  me  when  I  fell.  You  never  tried  to 
help  me;  you  were  always  digging  the  pitfall 
under  my  feet.  You  were  forever  holding 
out  your  hand  with  money  in  it;  and  there 
was  you  on  one  side  of  me  with  your  money. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    133 

and  my  father  on  the  other  with  his  never- 
ending  talk  about  poverty  and  debts  and  his 
fear  of  you — and  you  know  you  took  pains  to 
make  him  fear  you — and  his  saying  always 
that  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  in  what 
people  thought  of  me,  whether  I  stood  out 
against  you  or  .  .  ."  Her  glance  shifted  and 
fell.  There  were  some  things  she  could  not 
put  into  words. 

"That's  book  talk,  Sylvia.  Come  out  into 
the  open.  I  know  what  the  female  nature  is. 
You're  all  alike.  You  all  know  when  to 
lower  your  eyes  and  lift  your  fan  and  back 
into  a  corner.  That's  the  female's  job,  just 
as  it's  the  male's  job  to  be  bold  and  rough. 
But  you  all  know  to  a  hair  how  far  to  carry 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  always  stop  in  plenty 
of  time  to  get  caught." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  suppose," 
she  said  after  a  pause,  "that  roughly  describes 
certain  love-making  processes.  But  it  really 
wasn't  love-making  between  you  and  me, 
Fectnor.     It  was  a  kind  of  barter." 

His  eyes  seemed  to  snare  hers  relentlessly. 
"You're  not  doing  yourself  justice,  Sylvia," 
he  said.     "You're  not  one  of  the  bartering 


134  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

kind.  You'd  have  killed  me — you'd  have 
killed  yourself — before  you'd  have  let  me 
touch  you,  if  you  hadn't  liked  me.  You 
know  that's  a  fact." 

The  shadow  of  a  frown  darkened  her  brow. 
"There  was  a  time  when  you  had  a  kind  of 
fascination  for  me.  The  way  you  had  of 
making  other  men  seem  little  and  dumb, 
when  you  came  in  and  spoke.  You  seemed 
so  much  alive.  I  noticed  once  that  you 
didn't  count  your  change  when  you'd  paid 
for  some  drinks.  That  was  the  way  in  every- 
thing you  did.  You  seemed  lavish  with 
everything  that  was  in  you;  you  let  the  big 
things  go  and  didn't  worry  about  the  change. 
You  were  a  big  man  in  some  ways,  Fectnor. 
A  girl  needn't  have  been  ashamed  of  ad- 
miring you.  But  Fectnor  .  .  .  I've  come  to 
see  what  a  low  life  it  was  I  was  leading.  In 
cases  like  that,  what  the  woman  yields  is 
...  is  of  every  possible  importance  to  her, 
while  the  man  parts  only  with  his  money." 

He  smote  the  table  with  his  fist.  "I'm 
glad  you  said  that,"  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"There's  a  lie  in  that,  and  I  want  to  nail  it. 
The   man  gives  only   his   money,   you   say. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    135 

Do  you  understand  what  that  means  where 
a  hard-working  devil  is  concerned  ?  What 
has  he  got  besides  the  few  pennies  he  earns  ? 
When  he  gives  his  money,  isn't  he  giving  his 
strength  and  his  youth  ?  Isn't  he  giving  his 
manhood  ?  Isn't  he  giving  the  things  that 
are  his  for  only  a  few  years,  and  that  he 
can't  get  back  again  ?  I'm  not  talking  about 
the  dandies  who  have  a  lot  of  money  they 
never  earned.  I  should  think  a  woman  with 
as  much  as  one  bone  in  her  body  would  take 
a  shotgun  to  that  sort  whenever  they  came 
around.  I'm  talking  about  the  fellows  that 
sweat  for  what  they  get..  A  lot  of  molly- 
coddles and  virtuous  damn  fools  have  built 
up  that  Sunday-school  junk  about  the  woman 
giving  everything,  and  the  man  giving  noth- 
ing. But  I  want  to  tell  you  it's  nip  and 
tuck  as  to  who  gives  the  most.  A  woman 
takes  a  man's  money  as  if  it  grew  on  bushes. 
Go  and  watch  him  earn  it,  if  you  want  to 
know  what  his  part  of  the  bargain  is." 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  being  crowded 
against  a  wall.  She  could  not  look  at  him. 
She  groped  for  a  weapon — ^for  any  weapon — 
with    which    to    fight    him.     "That    would 


136         CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

sound  a  little  more  impressive,  Fectnor,"  she 
said,  "if  I  didn't  know  what  brought  you  to 
Eagle  Pass  just  now,  and  how  you  sweat  for 
the  pay  you  got." 

This  was  unfortunately  said,  for  there  was 
malice  in  it,  and  a  measure  of  injustice.  He 
heard  her  calmly. 

"This  election  business  is  only  a  side-line 
of  mine,"  he  replied.  "I  enjoy  it.  There's 
nothing  like  knowing  you  can  make  a  lot 
of  so-called  men  roll  over  and  play  dead. 
If  a  man  wants  to  find  out  where  he  stands, 
let  him  get  out  and  try  to  make  a  crowd  do 
something.  Let  him  try  to  pull  any  prunes- 
and-prism  stuff,  either  with  his  pocketbook  or 
his  opinions,  and  see  where  he  gets  off  at. 
No,  Sylvia,  you  played  the  wrong  card. 
Eleven  months  out  of  the  year  I  work  like 
a  nigger,  and  if  you  don't  know  it,  you'd 
better  not  say  anything  more  about  it." 

He  clasped  his  hands  about  his  knee  and 
regarded  her  darkly,  yet  with  a  kind  of  joy- 
ousness.  There  was  no  end  of  admiration  in 
his  glance,  but  of  kindness  there  was  never 
a  suggestion. 

She  gathered  new  energy  from  that  look 
in  his  eyes.    After  all,  they  had  been  arguing 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    137 

about  things  which  did  not  matter  now. 
"Fectnor/'  she  said,  "I'm  sure  there  must 
be  a  good  deal  of  justice  in  what  you  say. 
But  I  know  you're  forgetting  that  when  the 
man  and  the  woman  are  through  with  youth 
there  is  a  reckoning  which  gives  the  man  all 
the  best  of  it.  His  wrong-doing  isn't  stamped 
upon  him.  He  is  respected.  He  may  be 
poor,  but  he  isn't  shunned." 

"That's  more  of  the  same  lie.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  poor  man — a  really  poor  man — 
who  was  respected  ?  There  may  be  two  or 
three  of  the  people  who  know  him  best  who 
will  give  him  credit  for  certain  things — if 
he  denies  himself  to  pay  a  debt,  or  forfeits 
his  rest  to  sit  up  with  a  sick  neighbor.  But 
take  the  world  as  a  whole,  doesn't  it  ride 
over  the  man  who's  got  nothing?  Isn't  he 
dreaded  like  a  plague  ?  Isn't  he  a  kill-joy  ? 
I  don't  care  what  a  woman's  been,  she's  as 
well  off.  A  few  people  will  give  her  credit 
for  the  good  she  does,  and  that's  all  a  man 
can  hope  for,  if  he's  been  generous  enough 
or  enough  alive  to  let  his  money  go.  No, 
you  can't  build  up  any  fences,  Sylvia.  We're 
all  in  the  same  herd." 

She  felt  oppressed  by  the  hardness,   the 


138  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

relentlessness,  of  his  words,  his  manner.  She 
could  not  respond  to  him.  But  she  knew  that 
everything  this  man  said,  and  everything  he 
was,  left  out  of  the  account  all  those  qualities 
which  make  for  hope  and  aspirations  and 
faith. 

Her  glance,  resting  upon  him  as  from  a 
great  distance,  seemed  to  irritate  him.  "After 
all,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  "you're  putting  on  an 
awful  lot  of  silk  that  don't  belong  to  you. 
Suppose  we  say  that  you'd  have  kept  away 
from  me  if  you  hadn't  been  too  much 
influenced.  There  are  other  things  to  be 
remembered.  Peterson,  for  example.  Re- 
member Peterson .?  I  watched  you  and  him 
together  a  good  bit.  You'll  never  tell  me 
you  wasn't  loose  with  him." 

Much  of  her  strength  and  pride  returned 
to  her  at  this.  Whatever  the  truth  was,  she 
knew  that  Fectnor  had  no  right  to  bring 
such  a  charge  against  her.  "Your  language 
is  very  quaint  at  times,"  she  said.  A  curve 
of  disdain  hovered  about  her  lips.  "I'm  not 
aware  of  being,  or  of  ever  having  been,  loose 
in  any  way.  I  can't  think  where  such  a 
word  originated." 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    139 

"You  know  what  I  mean  well  enough. 
And  some  of  those  young  fellows — ^the  soldiers 
and  railroaders — I  don't  suppose  any  of  them 
have  got  anything  on  you,  either  ?'' 

"They  haven't,  Fectnor!"  she  exclaimed 
hotly.  She  resolved  to  have  nothing  more 
to  say  to  him.  She  felt  that  his  brutality 
gave  her  the  right  to  have  done  with  him. 
And  then  her  glance  was  arrested  by  his 
powerful  hand,  where  it  lay  on  the  table 
beside  him.  It  was  blunt-fingered  and  broad 
and  red,  with  the  back  covered  by  yellow 
hairs  which  extended  down  to  the  dabs  of 
finger-nails. 

He  seemed  to  read  her  mind,  and  in  an- 
swer he  took  up  a  heavy  pewter  cup  and  held 
it  toward  her.  For  an  instant  he  permitted 
her  to  scrutinize  the  cup,  and  then  his  fingers 
closed.  He  opened  his  hand  and  the  shape- 
less mass  of  pewter  fell  to  the  floor.  He 
threw  his  head  back  with  the  ecstasy  of 
perfect  physical  fitness.  His  laughter  arose, 
almost  hysterically. 

"Fectnor!"  she  cried,  standing  tense  and 
white  before  him,  "I  think  you're  all  brute 
— ^just  common,  hopeless  brute." 


I40  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

He  became  perfectly  serious;  but  pres- 
ently he  regarded  her  with  a  flicker  of  humor 
in  his  eyes,  she  thought.  "You  didn't  say 
that  as  if  you  meant  it,  Sylvia,"  he  declared. 
"You  didn't  say  it  as  if  you  quite  believed 
It.  But  I'm  going  to  show  you  that  you're 
right.  What  we've  been  together,  Sylvia, 
you  and  I,  we're  going  to  continue  to  be 
until  we  both  agree  to  quit.  That's  what 
you  may  call  justice.  And  so  far  I'm  not 
agreeing  to  quit." 

He  came  toward  her  then,  and  she  per- 
ceived that  his  bearing  had  altered  com- 
pletely. He  seemed  moved  by  some  impulse 
stronger  than  himself — as  if  it  were  quite 
outside  himself. 

She  felt  that  her  heart  had  suddenly 
ceased  to  beat.  A  leopard  crouching  before 
her  on  a  limb  could  not  have  seemed  more 
pitiless,  more  terrible.  She  had  sprung  to 
the  door  opening  into  her  father's  room  be- 
fore he  could  reach  her.  Her  fingers  shot 
the  boltand  the  door  was  open.  And  then 
she  knew  she  had  made  a  fatal  mistake  in 
holding  that  long  and  quiet  parley  with  the 
beast  that  had   trapped  her.     She  had   led 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE^S  ADVOCATE    141 

her  father,  doubtless,  to  beUeve  that  it  was 
an  amicable  talk  that  had  been  going  on 
behind  the  closed  door.  She  knew  now  that 
at  the  first  instant  of  Fectnor's  appearance 
she  should  have  given  battle  and  cried  for 
help. 

Now,  looking  into  the  adjoining  room, 
while  Fectnor's  grip  closed  upon  her  wrist, 
she  saw  the  front  door  quietly  close.  Her 
father  had  gone  out. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Sylvia  climbed  the  hill  in  the  dusk. 

A  casual  observer  would  have  remarked 
that  all  was  not  right  with  her.  Beneath  a 
calm  exterior  something  brooded.  You  might 
have  supposed  that  some  of  the  trivial  things 
of  existence  had  gone  wrong:  that  a  favorite 
servant  had  left  her,  or  that  the  dressmaker 
had  failed  to  keep  an  appointment.  Sylvia 
was  not  an  unschooled  creature  who  would 
let  down  the  scroll  of  her  life's  story  to  be 
read  by  every  idle  eye. 

But  the  gods  of  the  desert,  if  any  such 
there  be — the  spirit  of  the  yucca  and  the  cac- 
tus and  the  sage — must  have  known  by  the 
lines  of  that  immobile  face,  by  the  unseeing 
stare  in  those  weary  eyes,  that  some  funda- 
mental change  had  come  over  the  woman 
who  passed  along  that  road.  Sylvia  had 
seemed  almost  like  a  happy  child  when  she 
descended  the  hill  an  hour  before.  It  was  a 
woman  who  fashioned  a  new  philosophy  of 

life  who  now  returned. 

142 


FECTNOR,  THE   PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    143 

It  was  her  own  father  who  had  bade  her 
come;  it  was  the  man  she  loved — for  whom 
she  had  meant  to  create  her  life  anew — who 
had  bade  her  go;  and  it  was  one  to  whom  she 
had  never  told  an  untruth,  for  whose  pleasure 
she  had  been  beautiful  and  gay,  who  had  de- 
stroyed her. 

She  had  not  fully  realized  how  beautiful  a 
thing  her  new  security  had  been;  how  deeply 
in  her  nature  the  roots  of  a  new  hope,  of  a 
decent  orderliness  had  taken  hold.  But  the 
transplanted  blossom  which  had  seemed  to 
thrive  naturally  under  the  fostering  care  of 
Harboro — as  if  it  had  never  bloomed  else- 
where than  in  his  heart — had  been  ruthlessly 
torn  up  again.  The  seeming  gain  had  been 
turned  into  a  hideous  loss. 

And  so  over  that  road  where  a  woman  with 
illusions  had  passed,  a  philosopher  who  no 
longer  dreamed  returned. 

Harboro,  from  his  seat  on  the  balcony, 
saw  her  coming.  And  something  which  sur- 
rounded her  like  an  aura  of  evil  startled  him. 
He  dropped  his  newspaper  to  the  floor  and 
leaned  forward,  his  pulse  disturbed,  his  mus- 
cles tense.    As  she  drew  nearer  he  arose  with 


144  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  thought  of  hurrying  down-stairs  to  meet 
her;  and  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  she 
would  wish  to  see  him  alone,  away  from  the 
averted  eyes  of  old  Antonia,  which  saw  every- 
thing. 

A  little  later  he  heard  her  coming  up  the 
stairs  with  heavy,  measured  steps.  And  in 
that  moment  he  warned  himself  to  be  calm, 
to  discount  the  nameless  fears — surely  base- 
less fears — which  assailed  him. 

She  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  stood, 
inert,  looking  at  him  as  from  a  great  distance. 

"Well,  Sylvia?''  he  said  gently.  He  was 
seated  now,  and  one  arm  was  stretched  out 
over  the  arm  of  his  chair  invitingly.  He  tried 
to  smile  calmly. 

She  did  not  draw  any  nearer  to  him.  Her 
face  was  almost  expressionless,  save  that  her 
eyes  seemed  slowly  to  darken  as  she  regarded 
him.  And  then  he  saw  that  certain  muscles 
in  her  face  twitched,  and  that  this  tendency 
swiftly  strengthened. 

"Sylvia!"  he  exclaimed,  alarmed.  He 
arose  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

She  staggered  toward  him  and  rested  her 
hands    on    his    shoulders.      Her    eyes    we»-e 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    145 

averted,  and  Harboro  realized  with  a  pang 
that  she  did  not  touch  him  with  the  famihar 
touch  which  seemed  to  call  to  something 
within  him  to  respond,  to  make  itself  mani- 
fest. She  was  merely  seeking  for  support 
such  as  a  wall  or  a  gate  might  afford  to  one 
who  is  faint. 

He  touched  her  face  with  his  hand  and 
brought  it  about  so  that  he  could  read  her 
eyes;  but  this  movement  she  resisted — not 
irritably,  but  hopelessly.  He  slipped  an  arm 
around  her  yearningly,  and  then  the  storm 
within  her  broke. 

He  thought  she  must  be  suffocating.  She 
gasped  for  breath,  lifting  her  chin  high.  She 
was  shaken  with  sobs.  She  clasped  his  head 
in  her  hands  and  placed  her  face  against  it — • 
but  the  movement  was  despairing,  not  lov- 
ing. 

He  tried  again  to  look  into  her  eyes;  and 
presently  he  discovered  that  they  were  quite 
dry.  It  seemed  she  had  lost  the  power  to 
weep;  yet  her  sobs  became  rhythmic,  even 
— like  those  of  any  woman  who  grieves  deeply 
and  is  still  uncomforted. 

He  held  her  tenderly  and  spoke  her  name 


146  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

over  and  over.  The  tears  would  come  soon, 
and  when  she  had  wept  he  could  ask  her  to 
tell  him  what  it  was  that  had  wounded  her. 
He  was  suffering  cruelly;  he  was  in  despair. 
But  he  admonished  himself  firmly  to  bear 
with  her,  to  comfort  her,  to  wait. 

And  at  last,  as  if  indeed  she  had  been  lean- 
ing against  a  wall  for  support  until  she  could 
recover  herself,  she  drew  away  from  him. 
She  was  almost  calm  again;  but  Harboro 
realized  that  she  was  no  nearer  to  him  than 
she  had  been  when  first  she  had  climbed  the 
stairs  and  stood  before  him. 

He  placed  a  firm  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  guided  her  to  a  chair.  He  sat  down 
and  pulled  her  gently  down  to  him.  "Now, 
Sylvia!"  he  said  with  firmness. 

She  was  kneeling  beside  him,  her  elbows 
on  his  knees,  her  face  in  her  hands.  But  the 
strange  remoteness  was  still  there.  She  would 
not  look  at  him. 

"Come!"  he  admonished.  "I  am  wait- 
ing." 

She  looked  at  him  then;  but  she  wore  the 
expression  of  one  who  does  not  understand. 

"Something    has    gone    wrong,"    he    said. 


Jfe- 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    147 

"You  see,  I've  not  been  impatient  with  you. 
But  you  ought  to  tell  me  now." 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  tell  you  what's  gone 
wrong?" 

He  was  startled  by  the  even,  lifeless  qual- 
ity of  her  voice.    "Of  course !" 

"In  just  a  word  or  two,  I  suppose?" 

"If  you  can." 

She  knelt  where  she  could  look  away 
toward  the  west — toward  Mexico;  and  she 
noted,  with  mild  surprise,  that  a  new  moon 
hung  low  in  the  sky,  sinking  slowly  into  the 
desert.  It  seemed  to  her  that  years  had 
passed  since  she  had  seen  the  moon — a  full 
moon,  swinging,  at  this  hour  of  the  evening, 
in  the  eastern  sky. 

"Come,  Sylvia!"  It  was  Harboro's  ur- 
gent voice  again. 

"If  I  only  could !"  she  said,  moving  a  lit- 
tle in  token  of  her  discomfort. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  mean,  if  any  of  us  could  ever  say  what 
it  is  that  has  gone  wrong.  Everything  has 
gone  wrong.  From  the  very  beginning.  And 
now  you  ask  me:  'What's  gone  wrong  ?'  just 
as  you  might  ask,  'What  time  is  it,  Sylvia  ?' 


148  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

or,  '  Who  is  it  coming  up  the  road  ? '  I  can't 
tell  you  what's  gone  wrong.  If  I  talked  to 
you  a  week — a  month — I  couldn't  tell  you 
half  of  it.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  could.  I 
don't  believe  I  know." 

These  vagaries  might  have  touched  Har- 
boro  at  another  time;  they  might  have 
alarmed  him.  But  for  the  moment  wrath 
stirred  in  him.  He  arose  almost  roughly. 
"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  shall  go  to  your 
father.     I  shall  have  the  facts." 

This  angry  reference  to  her  father — or 
perhaps  it  was  the  roughness  of  his  with- 
drawal from  her — affected  her  in  a  new  way. 

"No,  you  must  not  do  that!"  she  cried 
despairingly,  and  then  the  tears  came  sud- 
denly— the  tears  which  had  stubbornly  re- 
fused to  flow. 

"There,"  he  said,  instantly  tender  again, 
"you'll  feel  better  soon.  I  won't  be  impa- 
tient with  you." 

But  Sylvia's  tears  were  only  incidental  to 
some  lesser  fear  or  grief.  They  did  not  spring 
from  the  wrong  she  had  suffered,  or  from  the 
depths  of  her  nature,  which  had  been  dwarfed 
and  darkened.     She  listlessly  pulled  a  chair 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    149 

into  a  better  position  and  sat  down  where 
she  need  not  look  at  Harboro.  "Give  me  a 
Httle  time/'  she  said.  "You  know  women 
have  moods,  don't  you  ?"  She  tried  to  speak 
lightly.  "If  there  is  anything  I  can  tell  you, 
I  will — if  you'll  give  me  time." 

She  had  no  intention  of  telling  Harboro 
what  had  happened.  The  very  thought  of 
such  a  course  was  monstrous.  Nothing  could 
be  undone.  She  could  only  make  conditions 
just  a  little  worse  by  talking.  She  realized 
heavily  that  the  thing  which  had  happened 
was  not  a  complete  episode  in  itself;  it  was 
only  one  chapter  in  a  long  story  which  had 
its  beginnings  in  the  first  days  in  Eagle  Pass, 
and  even  further  away.  Back  in  the  San 
Antonio  days.  She  could  not  give  Harboro 
an  intelligent  statement  of  one  chapter  with- 
out detailing  a  long,  complicated  synopsis  of 
the  chapters  that,  went  before. 

To  be  sure,  she  did  not  yet  know  the  man 
she  was  dealing  with — Harboro.  She  was 
entirely  misled  by  the  passive  manner  in 
which  he  permitted  her  to  withdraw  from 
him. 

"Yes,  you  shall  have  time,"  he  said.    "I 


ISO  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

only  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  here  to 
help  you  in  any  way  I  can/' 

She  remained  silent  so  long  that  he  be- 
came impatient  again.  "Did  you  find  your 
father  very  ill?"  he  hazarded. 

"My  father?  Oh!  No  ...  I  can  hardly 
say.  He  seemed  changed.  Or  perhaps  I  only 
imagined  that.  Perhaps  he  really  is  very 
ill." 

Another  long  silence  ensued.  Harboro 
was  searching  in  a  thousand  dark  places  for 
the  cause  of  her  abnormal  condition.  There 
were  no  guide-posts.  He  did  not  know  Syl- 
via's father.  He  knew  nothing  about  the 
life  she  had  led  with  him.  He  might  be  a 
cruel  monster  who  had  abused  her — or  he 
might  be  an  unfortunate,  unhappy  creature, 
the  very  sight  of  whom  would  wound  the 
heart  of  a  sensitive  woman. 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  arm  and 
drew  her  hand  into  his.  "I'm  waiting,  Syl- 
via," he  said. 

She  turned  toward  him  with  a  sudden  pas- 
sion of  sorrow.  "It  was  you  who  required 
me  to  go!"  she  cried.  "If  only  you  hadn't 
asked  me  to  go !" 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    151 

"I  thought  we  were  both  doing  what  was 
right  and  kind.  Fm  sorry  if  it  has  proved 
that  we  were  mistaken.  But  surely  you  do 
not  blame  me  V 

"Blame  you.?  No,  .  .  .  the  word  hadn't 
occurred  to  me.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  under- 
stand our  language  very  well.  Who  could 
ever  have  thought  of  such  a  meaningless 
word  as  'blame'?  You  might  think  little 
creatures — ants,  or  the  silly  locusts  that  sing 
in  the  heat — might  have  need  of  such  a  word. 
You  wouldn't  blame  an  apple  for  being  de- 
formed, would  you  ? — or  the  hawk  for  kill- 
ing the  dove  ?  We  are  what  we  are — that's 
all.    I  don't  blame  any  one." 

The  bewildered  Harboro  leaned  forward, 
his  hands  on  his  knees.  "We  are  what  we 
make  ourselves,  Sylvia.  We  do  what  we  per- 
mit ourselves  to  do.  Don't  lose  sight  of  that 
fact.  Don't  lose  sight  of  the  fact,  either,  that 
we  are  here,  man  and  wife,  to  help  each  other. 
I'm  waiting,  Sylvia,  for  you  to  tell  me  what 
has  gone  wrong." 

All  that  she  grasped  of  what  he  said  she 
would  have  denied  passionately;  but  the 
iron   in   his    nature,    now   manifesting   itself 


152  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

again,  she  did  not  understand  and  she  stood 
in  awe  of  it. 

"Give  me  until  to-morrow,"  she  pleaded. 
"I  think  perhaps  I'm  ill  to-night.  You  know 
how  you  imagine  things  sometimes?  Give 
me  until  to-morrow,  until  I  can  see  more 
clearly.  Perhaps  it  won't  seem  anything  at 
all  by  to-morrow." 

And  Harboro,  pondering  darkly,  consented 
to  question  her  no  more  that  night. 

Later  he  lay  by  her  side,  a  host  of  indefin- 
able fears  keeping  him  company.  He  could 
not  sleep.  He  did  not  even  remotely  guess 
the  nature  of  her  trouble,  but  he  knew  in- 
stinctively that  the  very  foundations  of  her 
being  had  been  disturbed. 

Once,  toward  morning,  she  began  to  cry 
piteously.  "No,  oh  no!"  The  words  were 
repeated  in  anguish  until  Harboro,  in  de- 
spair, seized  her  in  his  arms.  "What  is  it, 
Sylvia?"  he  cried.  "No  one  shall  harm 
you!" 

He  held  her  on  his  breast  and  soothed  her, 
his  own  face  harrowed  with  pain.  And  he 
noticed  that  she  withdrew  into  herself  again, 
and  seemed  remote,  a  stranger  to  him. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    153 

Then  she  fell  into  a  sound  sleep  and 
breathed  evenly  for  hours.  The  dawn  broke 
and  a  wan  light  filled  the  room.  Harboro 
saw  that  her  face  was  the  face  of  Sylvia  again 
— ^the  face  of  a  happy  child,  as  it  seemed  to 
him.  In  her  sleep  she  reached  out  for  him 
contentedly  and  found  his  throat,  and  her 
fingers  rested  upon  it  with  little,  intermit- 
tent, loving  pressures. 

Finally  she  awoke.  She  awoke,  but  Har- 
boro's  crowning  torture  came  when  he  saw 
the  expression  in  her  eyes.  The  horror  of 
one  who  tumbles  into  a  bottomless  abyss 
was  in  them.  But  now — thank  God  ! — she 
drew  herself  to  him  passionately  and  wept 
in  his  arms.  The  day  had  brought  back  to 
her  the  capacity  to  think,  to  compare  the 
fine  edifice  she  and  Harboro  had  built  with 
the  wreck  which  a  cruel  beast  had  wrought. 
She  sobbed  her  strength  away  on  Harboro's 
breast. 

And  when  the  sun  arose  she  looked  into 
her  husband's  gravely  steadfast  eyes,  and 
knew  that  she  must  tell  the  truth.  She  knew 
that  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do. 
She  spared  her  father,  inventing  little  false- 


154  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

hoods  on  his  behalf;  herself  she  spared,  con- 
fessing no  fault  of  her  own.  But  the  truth, 
as  to  how  on  the  night  before  Fectnor  had 
trapped  her  and  wronged  her  in  her  father's 
house,  she  told.  She  knew  that  Harboro 
would  never  have  permitted  her  to  rest  if 
she  had  not  told  him;  she  knew  that  she  must 
have  gone  mad  if  she  had  not  unbosomed  her- 
self to  this  man  who  was  as  the  only  tree  in 
the  desert  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XV 

She  was  puzzled  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  heard  her  to  the  end.  She  expected  an 
outburst;  and  she  found  only  that  after  one 
moment,  during  which  his  body  became  rigid 
and  a  look  of  incredulous  horror  settled  in 
his  eyes,  a  deadly  quiet  enveloped  him.  He 
did  not  try  to  comfort  her — and  certainly 
there  was  no  evidence  that  he  blamed  her. 
He  asked  her  a  few  questions  when  she  had 
finished.  He  was  not  seeking  to  implicate 
her — she  felt  certain  of  that.  He  merely 
wanted  to  be  quite  sure  of  his  ground. 

Then  he  got  up  and  began  dressing,  de- 
liberately and  quietly.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  that  he  was  not  putting  on  the  clothes 
he  usually  wore  on  Sunday,  but  this  devia- 
tion from  a  rule  would  not  have  seemed  sig- 
nificant to  her  even  if  she  had  noticed  it. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  pondered.  In  Syl- 
via's world  men  did  not  calmly  ignore  injury. 
They  became  violent,  even  when  violence 
could  not  possibly  mend  matters.     Had  Har- 

155 


156  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

boro  decided  to  accept  the  inevitable,  the 
irremediable,  without  a  word  ?  Her  first 
thought,  last  night,  had  been  that  she  would 
probably  lose  Harboro,  too,  together  with 
her  peace  of  mind.  He  would  rush  madly 
at  Fectnor,  and  he  would  be  killed.  Was  he 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  place  discretion 
first  and  pocket  an  insult  ^ 

Oddly,  the  fear  that  he  would  attack  Fect- 
nor changed  to  a  fear  that  he  did  not  intend 
to  do  so.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the 
man  she  loved  as  the  sort  of  man  who  will 
not  fight,  given  such  provocation  as  Harboro 
had. 

She  opened  her  eyes  to  look  at  him,  to 
measure  him  anew.  But  he  was  no  longer  in 
the  room. 

Then  her  fear  for  him  returned  with  re- 
doubled force.  Quiet  men  were  sometimes 
the  most  desperate,  the  most  unswerving, 
she  realized.  Perhaps  he  had  gone  even  now 
to  find  Fectnor. 

The  thought  terrified  her.  She  sprang 
from  the  bed  and  began  dressing  with  fever- 
ish haste.  She  would  overtake  him  and  plead 
with  him  not  to  go.    If  necessary,  she  would 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    157 

tell  him  other  things  about  herself — about 
the  reasons  she  had  given  Fectnor,  long  ago, 
to  believe  that  she  was  not  a  woman  to  be 
respected.  Harboro  would  not  forgive  her, 
in  that  event.  He  would  leave  her.  But  he 
would  not  go  to  his  death.  It  seemed  to  her 
quite  clear  that  the  only  unforgivable  sin 
she  could  commit  would  be  to  permit  Har- 
boro to  die  for  her  sake. 

She  hurried  down  into  the  dining-room. 
Ah,  Harboro  was  there !  And  again  she  was 
puzzled  by  his  placidity.  He  was  standing 
at  a  window,  with  his  back  to  her,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  He  turned  when  he 
heard  her.  "It  promises  to  be  another  warm 
day,"  he  said  pleasantly.  Then  he  turned 
and  looked  out  through  the  kitchen  door  as 
if  hinting  to  Antonia  that  breakfast  might 
now  be  served. 

He  ate  his  grapes  and  poached  eggs  and 
drank  his  coffee  in  silence.  He  seemed  un- 
aware that  Sylvia  was  regarding  him  with 
troubled  eyes. 

When  he  arose  from  the  table  he  turned 
toward  the  hall.  As  if  by  an  afterthought, 
he  called  back,  "Fm  going  to  be  busy  for  a 


158  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

little  while,  Sylvia,"  and  she  heard  him  going 
up  the  stairs. 

His  tone  had  conveyed  a  hint  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  be  disturbed,  she  thought,  but 
she  could  not  help  being  uncomfortably  curi- 
ous. What  was  there  to  be  done  on  a  Sun- 
day morning  that  could  compare  in  impor- 
tance with  the  obviously  necessary  task  of 
helping  her  to  forget  the  injuries  she  had  suf- 
fered ?  It  was  not  his  way  to  turn  away 
from  her  when  she  needed  him. 

She  could  not  understand  his  conduct  at 
all.  She  was  wounded;  and  then  she  began 
to  think  more  directly,  more  clearly.  Har- 
boro  was  not  putting  this  thing  away  from 
him.    In  his  way  he  was  facing  it.    But  how .? 

She  noiselessly  climbed  the  stairs  and 
opened  the  door  of  their  bedroom. 

With  great  exactitude  of  movement  he 
was  cleaning  a  pistol.  He  had  taken  it  apart 
and  just  now  a  cylinder  of  burnished  steel 
was  in  his  hand. 

He  frowned  when  he  heard  her.  "I  am 
sorry  you  came  up,  Sylvia,"  he  said.  "I  had 
an  idea  I'd  given  you  to  understand  .  .  ." 

She  hurriedly  withdrew,  closing  the  door 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE^S  ADVOCATE    159 

behind  her.  She  felt  an  inexpHcable  elation 
as  she  went  down  the  stairs;  yet  she  felt 
that  she  stood  face  to  face  with  calamity, 
too.  Her  man  was  a  fighting  man,  then — 
only  he  was  not  a  madman.  He  was  the  sort 
of  fighter  who  did  not  lose  his  head.  But  she 
could  not  picture  him  as  a  man  skilled  in  the 
brutal  work  of  killing.  He  was  too  deliber- 
ate, too  scrupulous,  for  that  sort  of  work. 
And  Fectnor  was  neither  deliberate  nor 
scrupulous.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
would  be  intently  watchful  for  an  advantage, 
and  who  would  be  elated  as  he  seized  that 
advantage. 

.  .  .  She  would  persuade  Harboro  not  to 
go,  after  all.  The  thing  was  not  known.  It 
would  never  be  known.  Her  searching  wom- 
an's logic  brought  to  her  the  realization  that 
the  only  way  to  publish  the  facts  broadcast 
was  for  Harboro  to  seek  a  quarrel  with  Fect- 
nor.    He  would  have  to  give  his  reasons. 

But  when  Harboro  came  down  the  stairs 
she  knew  instantly  that  she  could  not  stop 
him  from  going.  That  quiet  look  was  not 
unreadable  now.  It  meant  unswerving  de- 
termination. 


i6o  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

He  called  to  her,  his  hand  outstretched; 
and  when  she  went  to  him  he  kissed  her.  His 
voice  was  gentle  and  unshaken,  in  quite  the 
habitual  way,  when  he  said:  "/  shall  be  back 
in  a  little  whiles 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him 
imploringly.     "Don't  go,"  she  pleaded. 

"Ah,  but  I  must  go." 

She  touched  his  cheeks  with  her  hands. 
"Don't  go!"  she  repeated.  "Nothing  can 
be  undone." 

"But  a  man's  job  isn't  to  undo  things — 
it's  to  do  them." 

She  held  her  face  high  as  if  the  waters  were 
engulfing  her.  "Don't  go!"  she  said  again; 
and  her  eyes  were  swimming,  so  that  at  the 
last  she  did  not  see  him  go,  and  did  not  know 
that  he  had  kept  that  look  of  placid  cour- 
age to  the  end. 

It  was  a  little  early  for  the  usual  Sunday 
morning  loiterers  to  be  about  as  Harboro 
entered  the  town.  For  a  moment  he  believed 
there  was  no  one  about  at  all.  The  little 
town,  with  its  main  street  and  its  secondary 
thoroughfares    bordered    by    low    structures, 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    i6i 

might  have  been  regarded  as  the  habitation 
of  lesser  creatures  than  human  beings,  as  it 
stood  there  musing  after  the  departed  night, 
in  the  midst  of  Hmitless  wastes  of  sand. 
That  group  of  houses  might  have  been  lik- 
ened to  some  kind  of  larger  birds,  hugging  the 
earth  in  trepidation,  ready  to  take  flight  at 
any  moment. 

Yet  Harboro  had  been  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  no  one  was  as  yet  astir.  Two 
men  stood  out  in  the  street,  at  the  entrance 
to  the  Maverick  bar,  near  a  hitching-post  to 
which  a  small  horse  carrying  a  big  saddle  was 
tethered.  One  of  the  men  was  about  to 
mount.  As  Harboro  approached  he  untied 
his  horse  and  lifted  one  foot  to  its  stirrup, 
and  stood  an  instant  longer  to  finish  what  he 
was  saying,  or  perhaps  to  hear  the  other  out. 

The  other  man  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  He 
carried  a  blue-serge  sack-coat  over  his  arm. 
He  stood  facing  Harboro  as  the  latter  ap- 
proached; and  the  expression  in  his  eyes 
seemed  to  change  in  a  peculiar  way  at  sight 
of  the  big,  swarthy  man  who  stepped  off  the 
sidewalk,  down  into  the  street,  and  seemed  to 
be  headed  directly  toward  him. 


i62  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

The  two  men  had  never  met  before;  but 
Harboro,  taking  in  that  compact,  muscular 
figure,  found  himself  musing  with  assurance: 
"That  is  Fectnor." 

Nothing  in  his  face  or  carriage  betrayed 
his  purpose,  and  the  man  with  the  blue-serge 
garment  on  his  arm  kept  his  ground  compla- 
cently. The  man  with  the  horse  mounted 
and  rode  away. 

Harboro  advanced  easily  until  he  was 
within  arm's  length  of  the  other  man  in  the 
street.  "You're  Fectnor,  aren't  you.?"  he 
asked. 

"I  am,"  replied  the  other  crisply. 

Harboro  regarded  him  searchingly.  At 
length  he  remarked:  "Fectnor,  I  see  you've 
got  a  gun  on  you." 

"I  have,"  was  the  steely  response.  Fect- 
nor's  narrow  blue  eyes  became,  suddenly,  the 
most  alert  thing  about  a  body  which  was  all 
alertness. 

"So  have  I,"  said  Harboro. 

The  other's  narrow  eyes  seemed  to  twinkle. 
His  response  sounded  like:  "The  L  you 
say!" 

"Yes,"   said  Harboro.     He  added:    "My 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    163 

wife  was  the  woman  you  trapped  in  Little's 
house  last  night." 

Fectnor's  mind  went  swiftly  to  the  weapon 
in  his  holster;  and  something  more  than  his 
mind,  surely,  since  Harboro  knew.  Yet  the 
man's  hand  had  barely  moved.  However, 
he  casually  threw  the  coat  he  carried  over 
his  left  arm,  leaving  his  right  hand  free.  If 
he  had  thought  of  reaching  for  his  weapon  he 
had  probably  realized  that  he  must  first  get 
out  of  reach  of  Harboro's  arm.  ''You  might 
put  that  a  little  different,"  he  said  lightly. 
''You  might  say — the  woman  I  met  in  Lit- 
tle's house." 

Harboro  took  in  the  insinuated  insult.  He 
remained  unmoved.  He  could  see  that  Fect- 
nor  was  not  a  coward,  no  matter  what  else 
he  was;  and  he  realized  that  this  man  would 
seek  to  enrage  him  further,  so  that  his  eyes 
would  be  blinded,  so  that  his  hands  would 
tremble. 

"I'm  going  to  kill  you,  Fectnor,"  Harboro 
continued.  "But  I'm  going  to  give  you  a 
chance  for  your  life.  I  want  you  to  turn  and 
walk  down  the  street  twelve  paces.  Then 
turn  and  draw.    I'll  not  draw  until  you  turn 


i64  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

unless  you  try  to  play  a  trick  on  me.  Your 
best  chance  lies  in  your  doing  just  as  I  tell 
you  to." 

Fectnor  regarded  him  shrewdly  with  his 
peering,  merry  eyes.  He  rather  liked  Har- 
boro,  so  far  as  first  impressions  went.  Yet 
his  lips  were  set  in  a  straight  line.  "All 
right/'  he  drawled  amiably.  His  voice  was 
pitched  high — almost  to  a  falsetto. 

"Remember,  you'd  better  not  draw  until 
you've  turned  around,"  advised  Harboro. 
"You'll  be  more  likely  to  get  your  bearings 
right  that  way.  You  see,  I  want  to  give  you 
an  even  break.  If  I'd  wanted  to  murder  you 
I  could  have  slipped  up  from  behind.  You 
see  that,  of  course." 

"Clear  as  a  whistle,"  said  Fectnor.  He 
gave  Harboro  a  final  searching  look  and 
then  turned  about  unflinchingly.  He  pro- 
ceeded a  few  steps,  his  hands  held  before  him 
as  if  he  were  practising  a  crude  cake-walk. 
The  serge  garment  depended  from  one  arm. 
He  was  thinking  with  lightning-like  rapidity. 
Harboro  had  courage  enough — that  he  could 
tell — but  he  didn't  behave  like  a  man  who 
knew  very  many  tricks  with  a  gun.     Never- 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    165 

theless  he,  Fectnor,  would  be  under  a  disad- 
vantage in  this  test  of  skill  which  was  being 
forced  upon  him.  When  he  turned  he  would 
need  just  a  second  to  get  a  perfect  balance, 
to  be  quite  sure  of  his  footing,  to  get  his  bear- 
ings. And  that  one  second  might  make  all 
the  difference  in  the  outcome  of  the  affair. 
Moreover,  there  was  one  other  point  in  Har- 
boro's  favor,  Fectnor  realized.  His  was  the 
stronger  determination  of  the  two,  Fectnor  had 
not  flinched,  but  he  knew  that  his  heart  was 
not  in  this  fight.  He  could  see  that  Harboro 
was  a  good  deal  of  a  man.  A  fool,  perhaps, 
but  still  a  decent  fellow. 

These  were  conclusions  which  had  come 
in  flashes,  while  Fectnor  took  less  than  half 
a  dozen  steps.  Then  he  turned  his  head 
partly,  and  flung  back  almost  amiably:  "Wait 
until  I  get  rid  of  my  coat !" 

"'Drop  it!"  cried  Harboro  sharply. 

But  Fectnor  plainly  had  another  idea.  He 
turned  a  little  out  of  his  course,  still  with  his 
hands  well  in  front  of  him.  It  was  evident, 
then,  that  he  meant  to  fling  his  coat  on  the 
sidewalk. 

Harboro  held  him  with  eyes  which  were 


i66  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

keen  as  knives,  yet  still  a  little  dubious.  He 
was  puzzled  by  the  man's  good  humor;  he 
was  watchful  for  sudden  stratagems.  His 
own  hands  were  at  his  sides,  the  right  within 
a  few  inches  of  his  hip. 

Yet,  after  all,  he  was  unprepared  for  what 
happened.  Fectnor  leaned  forward  as  if  to 
deposit  his  coat  on  the  sidewalk.  Then  he 
seemed  to  stumble,  and  in  two  swift  leaps  he 
had  gained  the  inner  side  of  the  walk  and  had 
darted  into  the  inset  of  the  saloon.  He  was 
out  of  sight  in  a  flash. 

As  if  by  some  feat  in  legerdemain  Har- 
boro's  weapon  was  in  his  hand;  but  it  was 
a  hand  that  trembled  slightly.  He  had  al- 
lowed Fectnor  to  gain  an  advantage. 

He  stared  fixedly  at  that  place  where  Fect- 
nor had  disappeared.  His  right  hand  was 
held  in  the  position  of  a  runner's,  and  the 
burnished  steel  of  the  weapon  in  it  caught 
the  light  of  the  sun.  He  had  acquired  the 
trick  of  firing  while  his  weapon  was  being 
elevated — not  as  he  lowered  it;  with  a  move- 
ment like  the  pointing  of  a  finger.  He  was 
ready  for  Fectnor,  who  would  doubtless  try 
to  take  him  by  surprise. 


rnj. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    167 

Then  he  reaHzed  that  the  level  rays  of  the 
sun  made  the  whole  entrance  to  the  saloon, 
with  its  several  facets  of  glass,  a  thing  of 
dazzling  opaqueness.  He  could  not  see  Fect- 
nor  until  the  latter  stepped  forth  from  his 
ambush;  yet  it  seemed  probable  that  Fect- 
nor  might  be  able  to  see  him  easily  enough 
through  the  glass  barricade  behind  which  he 
had  taken  refuge.  He  might  expect  to  hear 
the  report  of  a  weapon  and  the  crash  of  glass 
at  any  instant. 

At  this  realization  he  had  an  ugly  sensa- 
tion at  the  roots  of  his  hair— as  if  his  scalp 
had  gone  to  sleep.  Yet  he  could  only  stand 
and  wait.     It  would  be  madness  to  advance. 

So  he  stood,  almost  single-mindedly.  He 
had  a  disagreeable  duty  to  perform,  and  he 
must  perform  it.  Yet  the  lesser  cells  of  his 
brain  spoke  to  him,  too,  and  he  realized  that 
he  must  present  a  shocking  sight  to  law- 
abiding,  happy  people,  if  any  should  appear. 
He  was  glad  that  the  street  was  still  de- 
serted, and  that  he  might  reasonably  hope 
to  be  unseen. 

Then  his  hand  shot  forward  with  the 
fierceness  of  a  tiger's  claw:  there  had  been  a 


i68  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

movement  in  the  saloon  entrance.  Only  by 
the  fraction  of  a  second  was  the  finger  on 
the  trigger  stayed. 

It  was  not  Fectnor  who  appeared.  Dun- 
woodie  stepped  into  sight  casually  and  looked 
in  Harboro's  direction.  The  expression  of 
amused  curiosity  in  his  eyes  swiftly  gave 
place  to  almost  comical  amazement  when 
he  took  in  that  spasmodic  movement  of  Har- 
boro's. 

"What's  up  r*  he  inquired.  He  approached 
Harboro  leisurely. 

"Stand  aside,  Dunwoodie,"  commanded 
Harboro  harshly. 

"Well,  wait  a  minute,"  insisted  Dun- 
woodie.  "Calm  yourself,  man.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  Fectnor's  not  in  the  saloon. 
He  went  on  through  and  out  the  back  way." 

Harboro  wheeled  with  an  almost  despair- 
ing expression  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
look  at  nothing,  now — like  a  bird-dog  that 
senses  the  nearness  of  the  invisible  quarry. 
The  thought  came  to  him:  "Fectnor  may 
appear  at  any  point,  behind  me !"  The  man 
might  have  run  back  along  the  line  of  build- 
ings, seeking  his  own  place  to  emerge  again. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    169 

But  Dunwoodie  went  on  reassuringly.  He 
had  guessed  the  thought  in  Harboro's  mind. 
"No,  he's  quite  gone.  I  watched  him  go. 
He's  probably  in  Mexico  by  this  time — or 
well  on  his  way,  at  least." 

Harboro  drew  a  deep  breath.  "You 
watched  him  go?" 

"When  he  came  into  the  saloon,  like  a 
rock  out  of  a  sling,  he  stopped  just  long 
enough  to  grin,  and  fling  out  this — to  me — 
*If  you  want  to  see  a  funny  sight,  go  out 
front.'  Fectnor  never  did  like  me,  anyway. 
Then  he  scuttled  back  and  out.  I  followed 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  He  made 
straight  for  the  bridge  road.  He  was  sprint- 
ing.    He's  gone." 

Harboro's  gun  had  disappeared.  He  was 
frowning;  and  then  he  realized  that  Dun- 
woodie was  looking  at  him  with  a  quizzical 
expression. 

He  made  no  explanation,  however. 

"I  must  be  getting  along  home,"  he  said 
shortly.     He  was  thinking  of  Sylvia. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DuNWOODiE  was  not  given  to  talkative- 
ness; moreover,  he  was  a  considerate  man, 
and  he  respected  Harboro.  Therefore  it 
may  be  doubted  if  he  ever  said  anything 
about  that  unexplained  drama  which  oc- 
curred on  the  main  street  of  Eagle  Pass  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  before  the  town  was 
astir.  But  there  was  the  bartender  at  the 
Maverick — and  besides,  it  would  scarcely 
have  been  possible  for  any  man  to  do  what 
Harboro  had  done  without  being  seen  by 
numbers  of  persons  looking  out  upon  the 
street  through  discreetly  closed  windows. 

At  any  rate,  there  was  talk  in  the  town. 
By  sundown  everybody  knew  there  had  been 
trouble  between  Harboro  and  Fectnor,  and 
men  who  dropped  into  the  Maverick  for  a 
game  of  high-five  or  poker  had  their  atten- 
tion called  to  an  unclaimed  blue-serge  coat 
hanging  from  the  ice-box. 

"  He  got  away  with  his  skin,"  was  the  way 
170 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    171 

the  bartender  put  the  case,  "but  he  left  his 
coat." 

There  was  a  voice  from  one  of  the  card- 
tables:  "Well,  any  man  that  gets  Fectnor's 
coat  is  no  slouch." 

There  were  a  good  many  expressions  of 
undisguised  wonder  at  Fectnor's  behavior; 
and  nobody  could  have  guessed  that  perhaps 
some  sediment  of  manhood  which  had  re- 
mained after  all  the  other  decent  standards 
had  disappeared  had  convinced  Fectnor  that 
he  did  not  want  to  kill  a  man  whom  he  had 
injured  so  greatly.  And  from  the  popular 
attitude  toward  Fectnor's  conduct  there  grew 
a  greatly  increased  respect  for  Harboro. 

That,  indeed,  was  the  main  outcome  of 
the  episode,  so  far  as  the  town  as  a  whole 
was  concerned.  Harboro  became  a  some- 
what looming  figure.  But  with  Sylvia  .  .  . 
well,  with  Sylvia  it  was  different. 

Of  course  Sylvia  was  connected  with  the 
affair,  and  in  only  one  way.  She  was  the 
sort  of  woman  who  might  be  expected  to 
get  her  husband  into  trouble,  and  Fectnor 
was  the  kind  of  man  who  might  easily  appeal 
to  her  imagination.     This  was  the  common 


172  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

verdict;  and  the  town  concluded  that  it  was 
an  interesting  affair — the  more  so  because 
nearly  all  the  details  had  to  be  left  to  the 
imagination. 

As  for  Sylvia,  the  first  direct  result  of  her 
husband's  gun-play  was  that  a  week  or  two 
after  the  affair  happened,  she  had  a  caller 
— the  wife  of  Jesus  Mendoza. 

She  had  not  had  any  callers  since  her  mar- 
riage. Socially  she  had  been  entirely  un- 
recognized. The  social  stratum  represented 
by  the  Mesquite  Club,  and  that  lower  stra- 
tum identified  with  church  "socials"  and 
similar  affairs,  did  not  know  of  Sylvia's  ex- 
istence— had  decided  definitely  never  to  know 
of  her  existence  after  she  had  walked  down 
the  aisle  of  the  church  to  the  strains  of  the 
Lohengrin  march.  Nevertheless,  there  had 
been  that  trip  to  the  church,  and  the  play- 
ing of  the  march;  and  this  fact  placed  Sylvia 
considerably  above  certain  obscure  women 
in  the  town  who  were  not  under  public  con- 
demnation, but  whose  status  was  even  more 
hopeless — ^who  were  regarded  as  entirely  neg- 
ligible. 

The  wife  of  Jesus   Mendoza  was   one  of 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    173 

these.  She  was  an  American  woman,  mar- 
ried to  a  renegade  Mexican  who  was 
notoriously  evil.  I  have  referred  to  Men- 
doza  as  a  man  who  went  about  partly 
concealed  in  his  own  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke, 
who  looked  at  nothing  in  particular  and 
who  was  an  active  politician  of  a  sort.  He 
had  his  place  in  the  male  activities  of  the 
town;  but  you  wouldn't  have  known  he  had 
a  wife  from  anything  there  was  in  his  con- 
versation or  in  his  public  appearances.  No- 
body remembered  ever  to  have  seen  the  two 
together.  She  remained  indoors  in  all  sorts 
of  weather  save  when  she  had  marketing  to 
do,  and  then  she  looked  neither  to  left  nor 
right.  Her  face  was  like  a  mask.  She  had 
been  an  unfortunate  creature  when  Men- 
doza  married  her;  and  she  was  perhaps 
thankful  to  have  even  a  low-caste  Mexican 
for  a  husband,  and  a  shelter,  and  money 
enough  to  pay  the  household  expenses. 

That  her  life  could  not  have  been  entirely 
complete,  even  from  her  own  way  of  think- 
ing, was  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  at  last 
she  came  to  call  on  Sylvia  in  the  house  on 
the  Quemado  Road. 

Sylvia  received  her  with  reticence  and  with 


174  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

a  knowing  look.  She  was  not  pleased  that 
Mrs.  Mendoza  had  decided  to  call.  She 
realized  just  what  her  own  status  was  in 
the  eyes  of  this  woman,  who  had  assumed 
that  she  might  be  a  welcome  visitor. 

But  Sylvia's  outlook  upon  life,  as  has  been 
seen,  was  distorted  in  many  ways;  and  she 
was  destined  to  realize  that  she  must  form 
new  conclusions  as  to  this  woman  who  had 
come  to  see  her  in  her  loneliness. 

Mrs.  Mendoza  was  tactful  and  kind.  She 
assumed  nothing,  save  that  Sylvia  was  not 
very  thoroughly  acquainted  in  the  town,  and 
that  as  she  had  had  her  own  house  now  for 
a  month  or  two,  she  would  expect  people  to 
be  neighborly.  She  discussed  the  difficulties 
of  housekeeping  so  far  from  the  source  of 
supplies.  She  was  able,  incidentally,  to  give 
Sylvia  a  number  of  valuable  hints  touching 
these  difficulties.  She  discussed  the  subject 
of  Mexican  help  without  self-consciousness. 
During  her  call  It  developed  that  she  was 
fond  of  music — that  in  fact  she  was  (or  had 
been)  a  musician.  And  for  the  first  time  since 
Sylvia's  marriage  there  was  music  on  the 
piano  up  in  the  boudoir. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    175 

Mrs.  Mendoza  played  with  a  passionate- 
ness  which  was  quite  out  of  keeping  with 
her  mask-Uke  expression.  It  was  Hke  find- 
ing a  pearl  in  an  oyster,  hearing  her  at  the 
piano.  She  played  certain  airs  from  Fra 
Diavolo  so  skilfully  that  she  seemed  to  be 
letting  bandits  into  the  house;  and  when 
she  saw  that  Sylvia  was  following  with  deep 
appreciation  she  passed  on  to  the  Tower 
Scene,  giving  to  the  minor  chords  a  quality 
of  massiveness.  Her  expression  changed 
oddly.  There  was  color  in  her  cheeks  and  a 
stancher  adjustment  of  the  lines  of  her  face. 
She  suggested  a  good  woman  struggling 
through  flames  to  achieve  safety.  When  she 
played  from  //  Trovatore  you  did  not  think 
of  a  conservatory,  but  of  a  prison. 

She  stopped  after  a  time  and  the  color 
swiftly  receded  from  her  cheeks.  "I'm  afraid 
I've  been  rather  in  earnest,"  she  said  apolo- 
getically. "I  haven't  played  on  a  good 
piano  for  quite  a  long  time."  She  added,  as 
if  her  remark  might  seem  an  appeal  for  pity, 
"the  climate  here  injures  a  piano  in  a  year 
or  so.     The  fine  sand,  you  know." 

"You  must  come  and  use  mine  whenever 


176  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

you  will,"  said  Sylvia  heartily.  "I  love  it, 
though  I've  never  cared  to  play  myself." 

"  I  wonder  why  ? " 

**Ah,  I  could  scarcely  explain.  I've  been 
too  busy  living.  It  has  always  seemed  to 
me  that  music  and  pictures  and  books  were 
for  people  who  had  been  caught  in  an  eddy 
and  couldn't  go  on  with  the  stream."  She 
realized  the  tactlessness  of  this  immediately, 
and  added:  "That's  just  a  silly  fancy. 
What  I  should  have  said,  of  course,  is  that 
I  haven't  the  talent." 

"Don't  spoil  it,"  remonstrated  the  other 
woman  thoughtfully.  "But  you  must  re- 
member that  few  of  us  can  always  go  on 
with  the  stream." 

"Sometimes  you  get  caught  in  the  whirl- 
pools," said  Sylvia,  as  they  were  going  down 
the  stairs,  "and  then  you  can't  stop,  even 
if  you'd  like  to." 

I  doubt  if  either  woman  derived  a  great 
deal  of  benefit  from  this  visit.  They  might 
have  become  helpful  friends  under  happier 
conditions;  but  neither  had  anything  to 
offer  the  other  save  the  white  logic  of  un- 
toward circumstances  and  defeat. 


FECTNOR,  THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVOCATE    177 

The  wife  of  Jesus  Mendoza  did  not  know 
Sylvia  well  enough  to  perceive  that  a  cer- 
tain blitheness  and  faith  had  abandoned  her, 
never  to  return.  Nevertheless,  the  fact  of  her 
visit  has  its  place  in  this  chronicle,  since  it 
had  a  cruel  bearing  upon  a  day  which  still  lay 
in  Sylvia's  future. 

Sylvia's  caller  went  home;  and,  as  it 
chanced,  she  never  called  again  at  the  house 
on  the  Quemado  Road.  As  for  Sylvia,  she  did 
not  speak  to  Harboro  of  her  visitor.  From 
his  point  of  view,  she  thought,  there  would 
be  nothing  to  be  proud  of  in  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Mendoza  had  called.  And  so  Harboro 
was  destined  to  go  on  to  the  end  without 
knowing  that  there  was  any  such  person  as 
the  wife  of  Jesus  Mendoza. 


PART  IF 

THE  HORSE  WITH  THE  GOLDEN 
DAPPLES 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Two  events  which  had  a  bearing  upon 
Sylvia's  destiny  occurred  at  about  this  time. 
I  am  not  sure  which  came  first:  the  invita- 
tion to  a  celebration  out  at  the  Quemado 
settlement,  or  the  arrival  on  the  border  of 
Runyon,  the  mounted  inspector. 

The  coming  of  Runyon  caused  a  distinct 
ripple  in  the  social  circles  of  the  two  border 
towns.  He  was  well  connected,  it  was  known : 
he  was  a  cousin  to  a  congressman  in  the  San 
Angelo  district,  and  he  had  a  brother  in  the 
army. 

He  was  a  sort  of  frontier  Apollo;  a  man  in 
his  prime,  of  striking  build — a  dashing  fel- 
low. He  had  the  physical  strength,  com- 
bined with  neatness  of  lines,  which  charac- 
terized Buffalo  Bill  in  his  younger  days.  He 
was  a  blond  of  the  desert  type,  with  a  shapely 
mustache  the  color  of  flax,  with  a  ruddy 
skin  finely  tanned  by  sun  and  wind,  and 
with  deep  blue  eyes  which  flashed  and  spar- 
kled under  his  flaxen  brows.    He  was  a  manly 

i8i 


i82  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

appearing  fellow,  though  there  was  a  glam- 
our about  him  which  made  prosaic  folk  sus- 
picious. 

He  rode  a  dun  horse  with  golden  dapples — 
a  slim,  proud  thing  which  suited  Runyon  in 
every  detail.  When  you  saw  him  mounted 
you  thought  of  a  parade;  you  wondered 
where  the  rest  of  it  was — the  supernumer- 
ary complement. 

The  man  was  also  characterized  by  the 
male  contingent  of  the  border  as  a  "dresser." 
He  was  always  immaculately  clad,  despite 
the  exposure  to  which  his  work  subjected 
him.  He  seemed  to  have  an  artist's  sense  of 
color  effects.  Everything  he  put  on  was  not 
only  faultless  in  itself,  but  it  seemed  specially 
designed  and  made  for  him.  In  the  set  of 
his  sombrero  and  the  style  of  his  spurs  he 
knew  how  to  suggest  rakishness  without 
quite  achieving  it;  and  when  he  permitted 
his  spirited  horse  to  give  way  to  its  wayward 
or  playful  moods  there  was  something  just 
a  little  sinister  in  his  mirth.  He  looked  as 
much  at  home  in  conventional  clothes  as  in 
his  inspector's  outfit,  and  he  immediately 
became  a  social  favorite  on  both  sides  of  the 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    183 

river.  It  developed  that  he  could  sing  quite 
amazingly.  His  voice  was  high-pitched,  but 
there  was  power  and  fire  in  it.  He  sang 
easily  and  he  loved  to  sing.  His  songs  were 
the  light-opera  favorites,  the  fame  of  which 
reached  the  border  from  New  York  and 
London,  and  even  Vienna.  And  when  there 
was  difficulty  about  getting  the  accompani- 
ments played  he  took  his  place  unaffectedly 
at  the  piano  and  played  them  himself. 

His  name  began  to  appear  regularly  in 
the  Eagle  Pass  Guide  in  connection  with 
social  events;  and  he  was  not  merely  men- 
tioned as  "among  those  present,"  but  there 
was  always  something  about  his  skill  as  a 
musician. 

Of  course  Sylvia  was  destined  to  see  him 
sooner  or  later,  though  she  stayed  at  home 
with  almost  morbid  fidelity  to  a  resolution 
she  had  made.  He  rode  out  the  Quemado 
Road  one  matchless  December  day  when 
the  very  air  would  have  seemed  sufficient 
to  produce  flowers  without  calling  the  un- 
gracious desert  into  service.  Sylvia  sat  in 
her  boudoir  by  an  open  window  and  watched 
him    approach.      She    immediately    guessed 


i84  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

that  it  was  Runyon.  The  remarkable  man- 
ner in  which  he  had  conquered  the  town 
had  made  him  an  occasional  subject  for 
comment  between  Sylvia  and  Harboro,  and 
he  had  described  the  man  to  her. 

Sylvia  thought  that  the  rider  and  his 
horse,  with  the  sun  on  the  man's  flashing 
blue  eyes  and  the  horse's  golden  dapples, 
constituted  the  prettiest  picture  she  had 
ever  seen.  Never  before  had  she  observed 
a  man  who  sat  his  horse  with  such  an  air  of 
gallantry. 

And  as  she  regarded  him  appraisingly  he 
glanced  up  at  her,  and  there  was  the  slight- 
est indication  of  pleased  surprise  in  his 
glance.  She  withdrew  from  the  window;  but 
when  she  reckoned  that  he  was  well  past  the 
house  she  looked  after  him.  He  was  look- 
ing back,  and  their  eyes  met  again. 

It  is  decidedly  contrary  to  my  conviction 
that  either  Sylvia  or  Runyon  consciously 
paved  the  way  for  future  mischief  when  they 
indulged  in  that  second  glance  at  each  other. 
He  was  the  sort  of  man  who  might  have  at- 
tracted a  second  glance  anywhere,  and  he 
would  have  been  a  poor  fellow  if  he  had  not 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    185 

considered  Sylvia  a  sight  worth  turning  his 
head  for. 

Nevertheless,  Sylvia  regretted  that  sec- 
ond glance.  It  had  an  effect  upon  her  heart 
which  was  far  from  soothing;  and  when  she 
realized  that  her  heart  seemed  suddenly  to 
hurt  her,  her  conscience  followed  suit  and 
hurt  her  too.  She  closed  the  window  right- 
eously; though  she  was  careful  not  to  do  so 
until  she  felt  sure  that  Runyon  was  beyond 
sight  and  hearing. 

And  then  there  came  to  Harboro  the  invi- 
tation out  to  the  Quemado.  The  belle  of 
the  settlement,  a  Mexican  girl  famed  for 
her  goodness  and  beauty,  was  to  be  married 
to  one  of  the  Wayne  brothers,  ranchers  on 
an  immense  scale.  The  older  of  the  two 
brothers  was  a  conventional  fellow  enough, 
with  an  American  wife  and  a  large  family; 
but  the  younger  brother  was  known  far  and 
wide  as  a  good-natured,  pleasure-pursuing 
man  who  counted  every  individual  in  Mav- 
erick County,  Mexican  and  American  alike, 
his  friend.  It  seemed  that  he  was  planning  to 
settle  down  now,  and  he  had  won  the  heart 
of  a  girl  who  seemed  destined  to  make  an 


i86  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

admirable  mate  for  one  of  his  nature-loving 
type,  though  his  brother  had  mildly  opposed 
the  idea  of  a  Mexican  girl  as  a  member  of 
the  family. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  in  the  fashion  of 
the  bride's  race.  It  was  to  be  an  affair  of 
some  twenty-four  hours'  duration,  counting 
the  dancing  and  feasting,  and  it  was  to  take 
place  in  a  sort  of  stockade  which  served  the 
Quemado  settlement  in  lieu  of  a  town  hall 
or  a  public  building  of  any  kind. 

Invitations  had  been  practically  unlim- 
ited in  number.  There  was  to  be  accommo- 
dation for  hundreds.  Many  musicians  had 
been  engaged,  and  there  was  to  be  a  moun- 
tain of  viands,  a  flood  of  beverages.  It  was 
to  be  the  sort  of  affair — democratic  and 
broadly  hospitable — which  any  honest  man 
might  have  enjoyed  for  an  hour  or  so,  at 
least;  and  it  was  in  that  category  of  events 
which  drew  sightseers  from  a  considerable 
distance.  Doubtless  there  would  be  casual 
guests  from  Spofford  (the  nearest  railroad 
point  on  the  Southern  Pacific)  and  from 
Piedras  Negras,  as  well  as  from  Eagle  Pass 
and  the  remote  corners  of  Maverick  County. 


mar-i.'  :»^y 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    187 

Harboro's  invitation  had  come  to  him 
through  one  of  his  fellow  employees  in  the 
railroad  offices — a  Mexican  who  had  spent 
four  years  in  an  American  university,  and 
who  was  universally  respected  for  his  urbane 
manner  and  kind  heart.  Valdez,  his  name 
was.  He  had  heartily  invited  Harboro  to 
go  to  the  wedding  with  him  as  his  guest; 
and  when  he  saw  traces  of  some  sort  of  dif- 
ficulty in  Harboro's  manner,  he  suggested, 
with  the  ready  simpatia  of  his  race,  that 
doubtless  there  was  a  Mrs.  Harboro  also, 
and  that  he  hoped  Mrs.  Harboro,  too,  would 
honor  him  by  accepting  his  invitation.  He 
promised  that  the  affair  would  be  enjoyable; 
that  it  would  afford  an  interesting  study  of 
a  people  whose  social  customs  still  included 
certain  pleasures  which  dated  back  to  the 
Cortez  invasion,  as  well  as  many  of  the 
latest  American  diversions. 

Harboro  tactfully  sought  for  more  definite 
details;  and  when  he  gathered  that  the 
affair  would  be  too  immense  to  be  at  all 
formal — that  there  would  be  introductions 
only  so  far  as  separate  groups  of  persons 
were  concerned,  and  that  guests  would  be 


i88  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

expected  to  come  and  go  with  perfect  free- 
dom, he  accepted  the  invitation  gratefully. 
He  had  not  forgotten  the  slight  which  the 
two  towns  had  put  upon  him  and  Sylvia,  and 
he  was  not  willing  to  subject  himself  to 
snubs  from  people  who  had  behaved  badly. 
But  he  realized  that  it  was  necessary  for 
Sylvia  to  see  people,  to  get  away  from  the 
house  occasionally,  to  know  other  society 
than  his  own. 

In  truth,  Harboro  had  been  very  carefully 
taking  account  of  Sylvia's  needs.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  had  not  been  really  herself 
since  that  Sunday  morning  when  he  had  had 
to  place  his  life  in  jeopardy.  In  a  way,  she 
seemed  to  love  him  more  passionately  than 
ever  before;  but  not  so  light-heartedly,  so 
gladly.  Some  elfin  quality  in  her  nature 
was  gone,  and  Harboro  would  gladly  have 
brought  it  back  again.  She  had  listless 
moods;  and  sometimes  as  they  sat  together 
he  surprised  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes.  She 
seemed  to  be  very  far  away  from  him;  and 
he  had  on  these  occasions  the  dark  thought 
that  even  the  substance  of  her  body  was 
gone,  too — that  if  he  should  touch  her  she 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    189 

would  vanish  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  like  that 
woman  in  Archibald  Malmaison^  after  she 
had  remained  behind  the  secret  panel,  undis- 
covered, for  a  generation. 

And  so  Harboro  decided  that  he  and  Sylvia 
would  go  to  the  big  affair  at  the  Quemado. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

There  was  an  atmosphere  of  happiness 
and  bustle  in  the  house  when  the  night  of 
the  outing  came.  Harboro  easily  managed  a 
half-hoHday  (it  was  a  Saturday),  and  he 
had  ample  time  to  make  careful  selection  of 
horses  for  Sylvia  and  himself  at  an  Eagle 
Pass  stable.  He  would  have  preferred  a  car- 
riage, but  Sylvia  had  assumed  that  they 
would  ride,  and  she  plainly  preferred  that 
mode  of  travel.  She  had  been  an  excellent 
horsewoman  in  the  old  San  Antonio  days. 

Old  Antonia  was  drawn  out  of  her  almost 

trance-like  introspection.     The  young  seiiora 

was  excited,  as  a  child  might  have  been,  at 

the    prospect    of   a    long    ride    through    the 

chaparral,  and  she  must  not  be  disappointed. 

She  had  fashioned  a  riding-habit  and  a  very 

charming  little  jacket,  and  to  these  the  old 

woman    made    an    addition    of   her    own — a 

wonderful  rehozo.     She  brought  it  forth  from 

among  her   own   possessions    and  offered  it 

affectionately. 

190 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    191 

**But  shall  I  need  it?"  asked  Sylvia. 

Very  surely  she  might,  she  was  assured. 
She  would  not  wish  to  dance  in  her  riding 
costume,  certainly.  And  it  might  turn  chilly 
after  nightfall.  She  would  find  that  other 
young  women  had  such  garments  to  protect 
them.  And  this  particular  rehozo  was  quite 
wonderful  She  pointed  out  its  wonderful 
qualities.  It  was  of  so  delicate  a  weave  that 
it  might  have  been  thrust  into  a  man's 
pocket;  yet,  unfolded,  it  proved  to  be  of 
the  dimensions  of  a  blanket.  And  there  was 
warmth  in  it.  She  folded  it  neatly  and  ex- 
plained how  it  might  be  tied  to  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle.     It  would  not  be  in  the  way. 

Sylvia  affected  much  gratitude  for  such 
kindness  and  foresight,  though  she  thought 
it  unlikely  that  she  would  need  a  wrap  of 
any  sort. 

There  was  an  early  supper,  Antonia  con- 
tributing a  quite  unprecedented  alacrity; 
and  then  there  was  a  cheerful  call  from  the 
road.     The  horses  had  been  brought. 

Sylvia  ran  out  to  inspect  them;  and  Har- 
boro,  following,  was  not  a  little  amazed  to 
perceive  how  important  a  matter  she  con- 


192  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

sidered  the  sort  of  horses  he  had  engaged. 
Horses  were  not  a  mere  medium  of  travel 
to  Sylvia;  they  were  persons  in  the  drama, 
and  it  was  highly  important  that  they  should 
fit  into  the  various  romantic  demands  of  the 
occasion.  Harboro  had  stipulated  that  they 
should  be  safe  horses,  of  good  appearance; 
and  the  boy  from  the  stable,  who  had  brought 
them,  regarded  them  with  beaming  eyes 
when  Harboro  examined  them.  The  boy  evi- 
dently looked  at  the  affair  much  as  Sylvia 
did — as  if  the  selection  of  the  horse  was  far 
more  important  than  the  determining  of  a 
destination. 

''They  seem  to  be  all  right,"  ventured 
Harboro. 

"Yes,  they  are  very  good  horses,"  agreed 
Sylvia;   but  she  sighed  a  little. 

Then  there  was  the  clatter  of  hoofs  down 
the  road,  and  Valdez  appeared.  He,  too, 
bestrode  a  decidedly  prosaic-appearing  ani- 
mal; but  when  Harboro  exclaimed:  "Ah, 
it's  Valdez!"  Sylvia  became  more  interested 
in  the  man  than  in  the  horse.  It  would  be 
a  pity  to  have  as  companion  on  a  long  ride 
a  man  without  merits.  She  was  not  very 
favorably  impressed  by  Valdez.     The  man 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES     193 

acknowledged  his  introduction  to  her  too 
casually.  There  were  no  swift,  confidential 
messages  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be  there 
for  the  purpose  of  devoting  himself  to  Har- 
boro,  not  to  her.  i 

Antonia  came  out  to  be  sure  that  the 
cherished  rehozo  was  tied  to  the  pommel  of 
Sylvia's  saddle,  and  then  Harboro  and  Sylvia 
went  back  into  the  house  to  get  into  their 
riding  things.  When  they  returned  Har- 
boro lifted  her  to  her  saddle  with  a  lack  of 
skill  which  brought  a  frown  to  her  brows. 
But  if  she  regretted  the  absence  of  certain 
established  formalities  in  this  performance, 
she  yielded  herself  immediately  to  the  ec- 
stasy of  being  in  the  saddle.  She  easily  as- 
sumed a  pretty  and  natural  attitude  which 
made  Harboro  marvel  at  her. 

She  watched  when  it  came  time  for  him 
to  mount.  The  horse  moved  uneasily,  as 
horses  have  done  since  the  beginning  of  time 
beneath  the  touch  of  unpractised  riders.  Har- 
boro gathered  the  reins  in  too  firm  a  grip, 
and  the  animal  tried  to  pull  away  from  him. 

The  boy  from  the  stable  sprang  forward. 
"Let  me  hold  his  head,"  he  said,  with  a  too 
obvious  intimation  that  Harboro  needed  help. 


J94  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

**  Never  mind,"  said  Harboro  crisply;  and 
lie  achieved  his  place  in  the  saddle  by  sheer 
force  rather  than  by  skill.  Neither  did  he 
fall  into  an  easy  position;  though  under 
ordinary  circumstances  this  fact  would  not 
have  been  noted.  But  Sylvia  swiftly  recalled 
the  picture  of  a  dun  horse  with  golden  dap- 
ples, and  of  a  rider  whose  very  attitude  in 
the  saddle  was  like  a  hymn  of  praise.  And 
again  she  sighed. 

She  had  seen  Runyon  often  since  the 
afternoon  on  which  he  had  made  his  first 
appearance  on  the  Quemado  Road.  Seem- 
ingly, his  duties  took  him  out  that  way  often; 
and  he  never  passed  without  glancing  toward 
Sylvia's  window — and  looking  back  again 
after  he  had  passed.  Nor  had  he  often  found 
that  place  by  the  window  vacant.  In  truth, 
it  was  one  of  Sylvia's  pleasures  in  those  days 
to  watch  Runyon  ride  by;  and  the  after- 
noon seemed  unduly  filled  with  tedium  when 
he  failed  to  appear. 

The  little  picture  in  front  of  Harboro's 
house  dissolved.  The  three  riders  turned 
their  horses'  heads  to  the   north  and  rode 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    195 

away.  Antonia  stood  at  the  gate  an  instant 
and  looked  after  them;  but  she  did  not  de- 
rive any  pleasure  from  the  sight.  It  was  not 
a  very  gallant-appearing  group.  Sylvia  was 
riding  between  the  two  men,  and  all  three 
were  moving  away  in  silence,  as  if  under 
constraint.  The  stable-boy  went  somewhat 
dispiritedly  back  along  the  way  he  had  come. 

Sylvia  was  the  first  of  the  three  riders 
to  find  herself.  There  were  certain  things 
which  made  the  springs  of  gladness  within 
her  stir.  The  road  was  perfect.  It  stretched, 
smooth  and  white,  away  into  the  dusk.  The 
air  was  clear  as  on  a  mountain  top,  with 
just  enough  crispness  to  create  energy.  Of 
wind  there  was  scarcely  a  breath. 

She  was  not  pleased  at  all  with  Harboro's 
friend.  He  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  a 
deferential  guide,  and  his  remarks  were  al- 
most entirely  addressed  to  Harboro.  But  she 
was  not  to  be  put  out  by  so  small  a  part 
of  the  night's  programme.  After  all,  Valdez 
was  not  planning  to  return  with  them,  and 
they  were  likely  to  have  the  ride  back  by 
themselves.  Valdez,  she  had  been  informed, 
was  to  be  a  sort  of  best  friend  to  the  family 


196  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

of  the  bride,  and  it  would  be  his  duty  to  re- 
main for  the  next  day's  ceremonies — the 
feasting  and  the  marriage  itself. 

The  dusk  deepened,  and  a  new  light  began 
to  glow  over  the  desert.  A  waxing  moon, 
half-full,  rode  near  the  zenith;  and  as  the 
light  of  day  receded  it  took  on  a  surprising 
brilliance.  The  road  seemed  in  some  strange 
way  to  be  more  clearly  defined  than  under 
the  light  of  day.  It  became  a  winding  path 
to  happiness.  It  began  to  beckon;  to  whis- 
per of  the  delights  of  swift  races,  of  coquet- 
ries. It  bade  the  riders  laugh  aloud  and 
fling  their  cares  away.  Occasionally  it  rose 
or  dipped;  and  then  through  little  valleys 
between  sand-dunes,  or  from  low  summits, 
the  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande  were  visible 
away  to  the  left.  A  mist  was  clinging  to  the 
river,  making  more  mysterious  its  undis- 
turbed progress  through  the  desert. 

After  a  long  time  the  silence  of  the  road 
was  broken  by  the  tinkle  of  a  small  bell, 
and  Valdez  pulled  his  horse  in  and  looked 
sharply  away  into  a  mesquite-clad  depression. 
Of  old  the  road  had  been  haunted  by  night- 
riders  who  were  willing  enough  to  ride  away 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    197 

with  a  traveller's  possessions,  leaving  the 
traveller  staring  sightlessly  toward  the  sky. 
But  Valdez  thought  of  no  menaces  in  con- 
nection with  the  border  folk.  He  was  a  kind- 
hearted  fellow,  to  whom  all  men  were  friends. 

"Travellers,  or  a  party  camped  for  the 
night,"  he  said  interestedly,  as  if  the  pres- 
ence of  other  human  beings  must  be  wel- 
comed gladly.  He  rode  out  toward  the 
sound  of  that  tinkling  bell,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment he  was  guided  more  certainly  by  the 
blaze  of  a  camp-fire. 

Harboro  and  Sylvia  followed,  and  pres- 
ently they  were  quite  near  to  two  quaint 
old  carts,  heaped  high  with  mesquite  fagots 
destined  for  the  humbler  hearths  of  Eagle 
Pass.  Donkeys  were  tethered  near  by,  and 
two  Mexicans,  quite  old  and  docile  in  ap- 
pearance, came  forward  to  greet  the  in- 
truders. 

Valdez  exchanged  greetings  with  them. 
He  knew  something  of  the  loneliness  of  these 
people's  lives,  and  the  only  religion  he  had 
was  a  belief  that  one  must  be  friendly  to 
travellers.  He  produced  a  flask  and  in- 
vited the  old  men  to  drink;  and  each  did  so 


198  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

with  much  nice  formaHty  and  thoroughly 
comprehensive  toasts  to  Harboro  and  Syl- 
via. 

Then  Valdez  replaced  his  flask  in  his 
pocket. 

'"God  go  with  you!"  he  called  as  he  went 
away,  and  "God  go  with  you!"  came  back 
the  placid,  kindly  echo. 

And  Sylvia  realized  suddenly  that  it  was 
a  very  good  thing  indeed  to  be  riding  along 
that  golden  road  through  the  desert. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Harboro  became  aware  that  some  one 
was  staring  almost  insolently  at  Sylvia. 

They  were  seated  on  one  of  the  benches 
disposed  around  the  side  of  the  stockade, 
and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  noise  all  about 
them.  In  the  open  space  of  the  stockade 
a  score  or  more  of  young  men  and  women 
were  dancing  to  the  music  of  violins  and 
flutes  and  'cellos.  Nearly  all  who  were  not 
dancing  were  talking  or  laughing.  People 
who  did  not  see  one  another  for  months  at 
a  time  were  meeting  and  expressing  their 
pleasure  in  staccato  showers  of  words. 

There  were  other  noises  in  the  near-by 
corral,  in  which  Valdez  had  put  their  horses 
away  with  the  other  horses;  and  in  still 
another  place  the  work  of  barbecuing  large 
quantities  of  meat  had  begun.  A  pleasant 
odor  from  the  fire  and  the  meat  floated  fit- 
fully over  the  stockade.  There  was  still 
an  almost  singular  absence  of  wind,  and  the 

night  was  warm  for  a  midwinter  night. 

199 


200  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Valdez  was  remaining  for  the  time  being 
with  his  guests,  and  he  was  making  friendly 
comments  upon  the  scene. 

''It's  chiefly  the  young  people  who  are 
dancing  now/'  he  observed.  "But  you'll 
notice  men  and  women  of  all  ages  around 
in  the  seats.  They  will  become  intoxicated 
with  the  joy  of  it  all — and  maybe  with  other 
things — later  in  the  night,  and  then  the 
dancing  will  begin  in  earnest." 

For  the  moment  an  old  type  of  fandango 
was  being  danced — a  dance  not  wholly  un- 
like a  quadrille,  in  that  it  admitted  a  number 
of  persons  to  the  set  and  afforded  oppor- 
tunity for  certain  individual  exhibitions  of 
skill. 

And  then  Harboro,  glancing  beyond  Val- 
dez, observed  that  a  man  of  mature  years — 
a  Mexican — was  regarding  Sylvia  fixedly. 
He  could  not  help  believing  that  there  was 
something  of  insolence,  too,  in  the  man's 
gaze. 

He  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  to  Valdez: 
"That  man  sitting  by  himself  over  there, 
the  fourth — the  fifth — from  us.  Do  you 
know  him  ? " 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    201 

Valdez  turned  casually  and  seemed  to 
be  taking  in  the  general  scene.  He  brought 
his  glance  back  to  Harboro  without  seem- 
ing to  have  noticed  anything  in  particular. 

"That's  one  of  your  most — er — conspic- 
uous citizens/'  he  said  with  a  smile.  "His 
name  is  Mendoza — ^Jesus  Mendoza.  I'm  sur- 
prised you've  never  met  him." 

"I  never  have/'  replied  Harboro.  He  got 
up  and  took  a  new  position  so  that  he  sat 
between  Sylvia  and  Mendoza,  cutting  off 
the  view  of  her. 

She  had  caught  the  name.  She  glanced 
interestedly  at  the  man  called  Jesus  Men- 
doza. She  could  not  remember  ever  to  have 
seen  him  before;  but  she  was  curious  to 
know  something  about  the  man  whose  wife 
had  been  kind  to  her,  and  whose  life  seemed 
somehow  tragically  lonely. 

Mendoza  made  no  sign  of  recognition  of 
Harboro's  displeasure.  He  arose  with  a 
purposeless  air  and  went  farther  along  the 
stockade  wall.  Sylvia's  glance  followed  him. 
She  had  not  taken  in  the  fact  that  the  man's 
presence,  or  anything  that  he  had  done,  had 
annoyed  Harboro.    She  was  wondering  what 


202  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

kind  of  man  it  was  who  had  captivated  and 
held  the  woman  who  had  filled  her  boudoir 
with  passionate  music,  and  who  knew  how 
to  keep  an  expressionless  mask  in  place  so 
skilfully  that  no  one  on  the  border  really 
knew  her. 

The  fandango  came  to  an  end,  and  the 
smooth  earth  which  constituted  the  floor 
of  the  enclosure  was  vacated  for  an  instant. 
Then  the  musicians  began  a  favorite  Mexican 
waltz,  and  there  was  a  scurrying  of  young 
men  and  women  for  places.  There  was  an 
eager  movement  along  the  rows  of  seats  by 
young  fellows  who  sought  partners  for  the 
waltz.  Custom  permitted  any  man  to  seek 
any  disengaged  woman  and  invite  her  to 
dance  with  him. 

"We  ought  to  find  Wayne  and  pay  our 
respects,"  suggested  Valdez.  "He  will  want 
to  meet  Mrs.  Harboro,  too,  of  course.  Shall 
we  look  for  him  .? " 

They  skirted  the  dancing  space,  leaving 
Sylvia  with  the  assurance  that  they  would 
soon  return.  Harboro  was  noting,  with  a 
relief  which  he  could  scarcely  understand, 
that  he  was  among  strangers.     The  people 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    203 

of  Eagle  Pass  were  almost  wholly  unrepre- 
sented as  yet.  The  few  Americans  present 
seemed  to  be  casual  sightseers  or  ranchmen 
neighbors  of  the  bridegroom. 

Left  alone,  Sylvia  looked  eagerly  and  a 
little  wistfully  toward  the  dancers.  Her 
muscles  were  yielding  to  the  call  of  the 
violins.  She  was  being  caught  by  the  spirit 
of  the  occasion.  Here  she  would  have  been 
wholly  in  her  element  but  for  a  vague  fear 
that  Harboro  would  not  like  her  to  yield 
unrestrainedly  to  the  prevailing  mood.  She 
wished  some  one  would  ask  her  to  dance. 
The  waltz  was  wonderful,  and  there  was 
plenty  of  room. 

And  then  she  looked  up  as  a  figure  paused 
before  her,  and  felt  a  thrill  of  interest  as 
she  met  the  steady,  inquiring  gaze  of  Jesus 
Mendoza. 

"Mrs.  Harboro,  I  believe.'^'*  he  asked. 
The  voice  was  musical  and  the  English  was 
perfect.  He  shrewdly  read  the  glance  she 
gave  him  and  then  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  heard  you  spoken  of  as  Mr.  Mendoza," 
she  replied.  "Your  wife  has  been  very  kind 
to  me."     She  did  not  offer  to  make  room 


204  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

for  him  on  the  seat  beside  her.  She  had 
been  reheved  of  her  riding-habit,  and  she 
held  Antonia's  rehozo  across  her  knees.  She 
had  decided  not  to  use  it  just  yet.  The 
night  was  still  comfortably  warm  and  she 
did  not  like  to  cover  up  the  pretty  Chinese 
silk  frock  she  was  wearing.  But  as  Men- 
doza  glanced  down  at  her  she  placed  the 
rehozo  over  one  arm  as  if  she  expected  to 
rise. 

Mendoza  must  have  noted  the  move- 
ment. A  gleam  of  satisfaction  shone  in  his 
inscrutable  eyes — as  when  a  current  of  air 
removes  some  of  the  ash  from  above  a  live 
coal.  "Will  you  dance  with  me.^"  he  asked. 
"When  the  young  fellows  overlook  so  charm- 
ing a  partner,  surely  an  old  man  may  be- 
come bold." 

She  arose  with  warm  responsiveness,  yet 
with  undefined  misgivings.  He  had  an  arm 
about  her  firmly  in  an  instant,  and  when 
they  had  caught  step  with  the  music  he  held 
her  close  to  him.  He  was  an  excellent  dancer. 
Sylvia  was  instantly  transported  away  from 
the  world  of  petty  discretions  into  a  realm 
of  faultless  harmony,  of  singing  rhythm. 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    205 

Her  color  was  heightened,  her  eyes  were 
sparkhng,  when  they  returned  to  their  place. 
*'It  was  nice/'  she  said,  releasing  her  partner's 
arm  and  drawing  apart.  A  purple-and-gold 
Chinese  lantern  glowed  just  above  her  head. 
And  then  she  realized  that  Harboro  and 
Valdez  had  returned.  There  was  a  stranger 
with  them. 

Harboro  regarded  her  with  unmistakable 
disapproval;  but  only  for  an  instant.  When 
something  of  the  childlike  glory  of  her  face 
departed  under  the  severe  expression  of  his 
eyes,  he  relented  immediately.  "Are  you  en- 
joying yourself,  Sylvia?"  he  inquired  gently, 
and  then:  "I  want  you  to  meet  our  host." 

Wayne  shook  hands  with  her  heartily. 
"You're  a  very  kind  lady  to  get  right  into 
our  merrymaking,"  he  said,  "though  I  hope 
you'll  save  a  dance  for  me  a  little  later." 

They  all  went  to  see  the  bride-to-be  then. 
She  was  hidden  away  in  one  of  the  adobe 
houses  of  the  settlement  near  by,  receiving 
congratulations  from  friends.  She  was  a 
dark  little  creature,  nicely  demure  and  al- 
most boisterously  joyous  by  turns. 

But    later    Sylvia    danced    with    Wayne, 


2o6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  he  thought  of  a  dozen,  a  score,  of  young 
fellows  who  would  wish  to  meet  her.  He 
brought  them  singly  and  in  groups,  and 
they  all  asked  to  dance  with  her.  She  was 
immediately  popular.  Happiness  radiated 
from  her,  and  she  added  to  the  warmth  of 
every  heart  that  came  within  her  influence. 

Harboro  watched  her  with  wonder.  She 
was  like  a  flame;  but  he  saw  her  as  a  sacred 
flame. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Sylvia  was  resting.  She  had  not  danced 
to  her  heart's  content,  but  she  had  become 
weary,  and  she  threw  Antonia's  rebozo  over 
her  shoulders  and  leaned  back  in  her  seat. 
For  the  moment  Harboro  and  Valdez  and 
Wayne  were  grouped  near  her,  standing. 
The  girl  Wayne  was  to  marry  the  next  day 
had  made  her  formal  appearance  now  and 
was  the  centre  of  attention.  She  was  danc- 
ing with  one  after  another,  equally  gracious 
toward  all. 

Then  Sylvia  heard  Valdez  and  Wayne  cry 
out  simultaneously: 

"Runyon!" 

And  then  both  men  hurried  away  toward 
the  entrance  to  the  stockade. 

Sylvia  drew  her  wrap  more  snugly  about 

her.      "Runyon!''    she    repeated    to   herself. 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  if  she  were  pondering 

— or  recuperating.    And  she  knew  that  from 

the  beginning  she  had  hoped  that  Runyon 

would  appear. 

207 


2o8  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"It's  that  inspector  fellow,"  explained  Har- 
boro,  without  looking  at  her.  His  tone  was 
not  at  all  contemptuous,  though  there  was 
a  note  of  amusement  in  it.  "He  seems  a 
sort  of  Prince  Charming  that  everybody 
takes  a  liking  to."  Wayne  and  Valdez  were 
already  returning,  with  Runyon  between 
them.  They  pretended  to  lead  him  captive 
and  his  face  radiated  merriment  and  good 
nature.  He  walked  with  the  elasticity  of 
a  feline  creature;  he  carried  his  body  as  if 
it  were  the  depository  of  precious  jewels. 
Never  was  there  a  man  to  whom  nature  had 
been  kinder — nor  any  man  who  was  more 
graciously  proud  of  what  nature  had  done 
for  him.  For  the  occasion  he  was  dressed 
in  a  suit  of  fawn-colored  corduroy  which 
fitted  him  as  the  rind  fits  the  apple. 

"Just  a  little  too  much  so,"  Harboro  was 
thinking,  ambiguously  enough,  certainly,  as 
Runyon  was  brought  before  him  and  Sylvia. 
Runyon  acknowledged  the  introduction  with 
a  cheerful  urbanity  which  was  quite  with- 
out discrimination  as  between  Harboro  and 
Sylvia.  Quite  impartially  he  bestowed  a 
flashing  smile  upon  both  the  man  and  the 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    209 

woman.  And  Harboro  began  vaguely  to 
understand.  Runyon  was  popular,  not  be- 
cause he  was  a  particularly  good  fellow,  but 
because  he  was  so  supremely  cheerful.  And 
he  seemed  entirely  harmless,  despite  the 
glamour  of  him.  After  all,  he  was  not  a 
mere  male  coquette.  He  was  in  love  with 
the  world,  with  life. 

Wayne  was  reproaching  him  for  not  hav- 
ing come  sooner.  He  should  have  been 
there  for  the  beginning,  he  said. 

And  Runyon's  response  was  characteristic 
enough,  perhaps:  "Everything  is  always  be- 
ginning." 

There  was  gay  laughter  at  this,  though 
the  meaning  of  it  must  have  been  obscure 
to  all  save  Sylvia.  The  words  sounded  like 
a  song  to  her.  It  was  a  song  she  had  wished 
to  sing  herself.  But  she  was  reflecting, 
despite  her  joy  in  the  saying:  ''No,  every- 
thing is  always  ending." 

Runyon  was  borne  away  like  a  conqueror. 
He  mingled  with  this  group  and  that.  His 
presence  was  like  a  stimulant.  His  musical 
voice  penetrated  everywhere;  his  laughter 
arose  now  and  again.    He  did  not  look  back 


2IO  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

toward  Sylvia.  She  had  the  strange  feeling 
that  even  yet  they  had  not  met — they  had 
not  met,  yet  had  known  each  other  alv^ays. 
He  ignored  her,  she  felt,  as  one  ignores  the 
best  friend,  the  oldest  associate,  on  the  ground 
that  no  explanations  are  necessary,  no  mis- 
understanding possible. 

Harboro  sat  down  beside  Sylvia.  When  he 
spoke  there  was  a  note  of  easy  raillery  in 
his  voice.  "They're  getting  him  to  sing," 
he  said,  and  Sylvia,  bringing  her  thoughts 
back  from  immeasurable  distances,  realized 
that  the  dancing  space  had  been  cleared, 
and  that  the  musicians  had  stopped  playing 
and  were  engaged  in  a  low-spoken  confer- 
ence with  Runyon.  He  nodded  toward  them 
approvingly  and  then  stepped  out  into  the 
open,  a  little  distance  from  them. 

The  very  sky  listened;  the  desert  became 
dumb.  The  orchestra  played  a  prelude  and 
then  Runyon  began  to  sing.  The  words 
came  clear  and  resonant: 

"By  the  blue  Alsatian  mountains 

Dwelt  a  maiden  young  and  fair  .  .  .  '* 

Runyon  sang  marvellously.  Although  he 
was  accustomed  to  the  confines  of  drawing- 


THE  HORSE  WITH  GOLDEN  DAPPLES    211 

rooms  with  low  ceilings,  he  seemed  quite 
at  home  on  this  earthen  floor  of  the  desert, 
with  the  moon  sinking  regretfully  beyond 
the  top  of  the  stockade.  He  was  perfectly 
at  ease.  His  hands  hung  so  naturally  by 
his  sides  that  they  seemed  invisible. 

*'But  the  blue  Alsatian  mountains 
Seem  to  watch  and  wait  alway." 

The  song  of  a  woman  alone,  and  then 
another,  ''A  Warrior  Bold,"  and  then  "Alice, 
Where  Art  Thou?"  And  finally  "Juanita." 
They  were  songs  his  audience  would  ap- 
preciate. And  all  those  four  songs  of  tragedy 
he  sang  without  banishing  the  beaming  smile 
from  his  eyes.  He  might  have  been  relating 
the  woes  of  marionettes. 

He  passed  from  the  scene  to  the  sound  of 
clapping  hands,  and  when  he  returned  al- 
most immediately  after  that  agreeable  theat- 
rical exit,  he  began  to  dance.  He  danced 
with  the  bride-to-be,  and  then  with  the 
bridesmaids.  He  found  obscure  girls  who 
seemed  to  have  been  forgotten — who  might  be 
said  to  have  had  no  existence  before  he  found 
them — and  danced  with  them  with  natural 
gallantry.     He  came  finally  to  Sylvia,   and 


212  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

she  drifted  away  with  him,  her  hand  resting 
on  his  shoulder  Hke  a  kiss. 

"I  thought  you  would  never  come  to  me," 
she  said  in  a  lifeless  voice. 

"You  knew  I  would,''  was  the  response. 

Her  lips  said  nothing  more.  But  her  heart 
was  beating  against  him;  it  was  speaking  to 
him  with  clarity,  with  eloquence. 


PART  F 
A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Harboro  and  Sylvia  were  taking  leave  of 
Wayne  and  Valdez.  Their  horses  had  been 
brought  and  they  were  in  their  saddles,  their 
horses'  heads  already  in  the  direction  of 
Eagle  Pass.  Valdez  was  adding  final  in- 
structions touching  the  road. 

"If  you're  not  quite  sure  of  the  way  I'll 
get  some  one  to  ride  in  with  you,"  said 
Wayne;  but  Harboro  would  not  listen  to 
this. 

"I'll  not  lose  the  way,"  he  declared; 
though  there  remained  in  his  mind  a  slight 
dubiousness  on  this  point.  The  moon  would 
be  down  before  the  ride  was  finished,  and 
there  were  not  a  few  roads  leading  away 
from  the  main  thoroughfare. 

Then,  much  to  Harboro's  surprise.  Run- 
yon  appeared,  riding  away  from  the  corral 
on  his  beautiful  dun  horse.  He  overheard 
the  conference  between  Harboro  and  the 
others,  and  he  made  himself  one  of  the 
group  with  pleasant  familiarity. 

215 


2i6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"Ah,  Harboro,  must  you  be  going,  too?" 
he  inquired  genially;  and  then:  "If  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  ride  with  you.  It's  rather 
a  lonely  road  at  this  hour,  and  I've  an  idea 
I  know  the  way  better  than  you." 

Harboro's  eyes  certainly  brightened  with 
rehef.  "It's  good  of  you  to  offer,"  he  de- 
clared heartily.  "By  all  means,  ride  with 
us."  He  turned  toward  Sylvia,  plainly  ex- 
pecting her  to  second  the  invitation. 

"It  will  be  much  pleasanter,"  she  said; 
though  it  seemed  to  Harboro  that  her  words 
lacked  heartiness.  She  was  busying  herself 
with  the  little  package  at  her  pommel — old 
Antonia's  rehow, 

"And  you  must  all  remember  that  there's 
one  more  latch-string  out  here  at  the  Que- 
mado,"  said  Wayne,  "whenever  you  feel 
inclined  to  ride  this  way." 

They  were  off  then.  The  sound  of  violins 
and  the  shuffle  of  feet  became  faint,  and  the 
last  gay  voice  died  in  the  distance.  Only 
now  and  then,  when  the  horses'  feet  fell  in 
unison,  there  drifted  after  them  the  note 
of  a  violin — like  a  wind  at  night  in  an  old 
casement.     And  then  the  three  riders  were 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  217 

presently  aware  of  being  quite  alone  on  a 
windless  waste,  with  a  sentinel  yucca  stand- 
ing on  a  distant  height  here  and  there  be- 
tween them  and  the  descending  moon,  and 
distant  groups  of  mesquite  wreathing  them- 
selves in  the  silver  mist  of  early  morning. 
It  had  been  a  little  past  midnight  when  they 
left  the  Quemado. 

Sylvia,  riding  between  the  two  men,  was 
so  obviously  under  some  sort  of  constraint 
that  Harboro  sought  to  arouse  her.  "I'm 
afraid  you  overtaxed  yourself,  Sylvia,'*  he 
suggested.  "It's  all  been  pleasant,  but  rather 
— heroic."  It  was  an  effort  for  him  to  speak 
lightly  and  cheerfully.  The  long  ride  out  to 
the  Quemado  was  a  thing  to  which  he  was 
not  accustomed,  and  the  merrymaking  had 
seemed  to  him  quite  monotonous  after  an 
hour  or  two.  Even  the  midnight  supper 
had  not  seemed  a  particularly  gay  thing  to 
him.  He  was  not  quite  a  youth  any  more, 
and  he  had  never  been  young,  it  seemed  to 
him,  in  the  way  in  which  these  desert  folk 
were  young.  Joy  seemed  to  them  a  kind  of 
intoxication — as  if  it  were  not  to  be  in- 
dulged in  save  at  long  intervals. 


2i8  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"I  didn't  overtax  myself/'  replied  Sylvia. 
*'The  ending  of  things  is  never  very  cheer- 
ful. I  suppose  that's  what  I  feel  just  now — 
as  if,  at  the  end,  things  don't  seem  quite 
worth  while,  after  all." 

Harboro  held  to  his  point.  "You  are 
tired,"  he  insisted. 

Runyon  interposed  cheerfully.  "And  there 
are  always  the  beginnings,"  he  said.  "We're 
just  beginning  a  new  day  and  a  fine  ride." 
He  looked  at  Harboro  as  if  inviting  support 
and  added,  in  a  lower  tone:  "And  I'd  like 
to  think  we  were  beginning  a  pleasant  ac- 
quaintance." 

Harboro  nodded  and  his  dark  eyes  beamed 
with  pleasure.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that 
this  final  clause  was  the  obvious  thing  for 
Runyon  to  say,  and  he  had  waited  to  see 
if  he  would  say  it.  He  did  not  suppose  that 
he  and  Sylvia  would  see  a  great  deal  of 
Runyon  in  Eagle  Pass,  where  they  were  not 
invited  to  entertainments  of  any  kind,  but 
there  might  be  occasional  excursions  into 
the  country,  and  Runyon  seemed  to  be  in- 
vited everjrwhere. 

But    Sylvia    refused    to    respond    to   this. 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  219 

The  pagan  in  her  nature  reasserted  itself, 
and  she  felt  resentful  of  Runyon's  affable 
attitude  toward  Harboro.  The  attraction 
which  she  and  Runyon  exerted  toward  each 
other  was  not  a  thing  to  be  brought  within 
the  scope  of  a  conventionally  friendly  re- 
lationship. Its  essence  was  of  the  things 
furtive  and  forbidden.  It  should  be  fought 
savagely  and  kept  within  bounds,  even  if  it 
could  never  be  conquered,  or  it  should  be 
acknowledged  and  given  way  to  in  secret. 
Two  were  company  and  three  a  crowd  in 
this  case.  She  might  have  derived  a  great 
deal  of  tumultuous  joy  from  Runyon's  friend- 
ship for  her  if  it  could  have  been  manifested 
in  secret,  but  she  could  feel  only  a  sense  of 
duplicity  and  shame  if  his  friendship  included 
Harboro,  too.  The  wolf  does  not  curry  favor 
with  the  sheep-dog  when  it  hungers  for  a 
lamb.  Such  was  her  creed.  In  brief,  Sylvia 
had  received  her  training  in  none  of  the 
social  schools.  She  was  a  daughter  of  the 
desert — a  bit  of  that  jetsam  which  the  Rio 
Grande  leaves  upon  its  arid  banks  as  it 
journeys  stealthily  to  the  sea. 

They  were  riding  along  in  silence  half  an 


220  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

hour  later,  their  horses  at  a  walk,  when  the 
stillness  of  the  night  was  rudely  shattered 
by  the  sound  of  iron  wheels  grinding  on 
stone,  and  in  an  instant  a  carriage  could  be 
seen  ascending  a  branch  road  which  arose 
out  of  a  near-by  arroyo. 

The  riders  checked  their  horses  and  waited : 
not  from  curiosity,  but  in  response  to  the 
prompting  of  a  neighborly  instinct.  Trav- 
ellers in  the  desert  are  never  strangers  to 
one  another. 

The  approaching  carriage  proved  to  be 
an  impressively  elegant  affair,  the  locality 
considered,  drawn  by  two  horses  which  were 
clearly  not  of  the  range  variety.  And  then 
further  things  were  revealed:  a  coachman 
sat  on  the  front  seat,  and  a  man  who  wore 
an  air  of  authority  about  him  like  a  kingly 
robe  sat  alone  on  the  back  seat.  Then  to 
Harboro,  sitting  high  with  the  last  rays  of 
the  moon  touching  his  face,  came  the  hearty 
hail:  "Harboro!    How  are  you,  Harboro?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  General  Manager. 

Harboro  turned  his  horse  so  that  he  stood 
alongside  the  open  carriage.  He  leaned 
over  the  wheel  and  shook  hands  with  the 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  221 

General  Manager.  The  encounter  seemed 
to  him  to  add  the  one  desirable  touch  of 
famiharity  to  the  night  ride.  He  explained 
his  presence  away  out  on  the  Quemado 
Road;  and  the  General  Manager  also  ex- 
plained. He  had  been  spending  the  eve- 
ning with  friends  on  a  near-by  ranch.  His 
family  were  remaining  for  the  night,  but  it 
had  been  necessary  for  him  to  return  to 
Piedras  Negras. 

Harboro  looked  about  for  his  companions, 
intending  to  introduce  them.  But  they  were 
a  little  too  far  away  to'  be  included  comfort- 
ably in  such  a  ceremony.  For  some  reason 
Runyon  had  chosen  to  ride  on  a  few  steps. 

"How  many  are  you?"  inquired  the  Gen- 
eral Manager,  with  a  note  of  purposefulness 
in  his  voice.  "Three .?  That's  good.  You 
get  in  with  me.  Tie  your  horse  behind.  Two 
can  ride  abreast  more  comfortably  than 
three,  and  you  and  I  can  talk.  I've  never 
felt  so  lonesome  in  my  life."  He  moved 
over  to  one  side  of  the  seat,  and  looked  back 
as  if  he  expected  to  help  in  getting  Har- 
boro's  horse  tied  behind  the  carriage.  His 
invitation  did  not  seem  at  all  like  a  com- 


222  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

mand,  but  it  did  seem  to  imply  that  a  re- 
fusal would  be  out  of  the  question. 

The  arrangement  seemed  quite  simple  and 
desirable  to  Harboro.  He  was  not  a  prac- 
tised horseman,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  the  eflFect  of  saddle  strain.  Moreover, 
he  had  realized  a  dozen  times  during  the 
past  hour  that  two  could  ride  easily  side  by 
side  on  the  desert  road,  while  a  third  rider 
was  continually  getting  in  the  way. 

He  called  to  Runyon  cheerfully:  "You  two 
go  on  ahead — I'm  going  to  ride  the  rest  of 
the  way  in." 

"Fine  V  called  back  Runyon.  To  Runyon 
everything  always  seemed  precisely  ideal — or 
at  least  such  was  the  impression  he  created. 

It  became  a  little  cavalcade  now,  the 
riders  leading  the  way.  Riders  and  car- 
riage kept  close  together  for  a  time.  Sylvia 
remained  silent,  but  she  felt  the  presence  of 
her  companion  as  a  deliciously  palpable  thing. 
Harboro  and  the  General  Manager  were  talk- 
ing, Harboro's  heavy  tones  alternating  at  un- 
equal intervals  with  the  crisp,  penetrating 
voice  of  the  General  Manager — a  voice  dry 
with  years,  but  vital  nevertheless. 


^ 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  223 

After  a  time  the  horses  in  the  carriage 
broke  into  a  rhythmic  trot.  In  the  dark- 
ness Runyon's  eyes  gleamed  with  satisfaction. 
''We'll  have  to  have  a  little  canter,  or  we'll 
get  run  over,"  he  said  gayly,  and  he  and 
Sylvia  gave  rein  to  their  horses. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  they  had  put  a 
distance  of  more  than  a  hundred  yards  be- 
tween them  and  the  occupants  of  the  car- 
riage. 

"This  is  more  like  it!"  exclaimed  Runyon 
exultantly.  Tone  and  words  alike  implied 
all  too  strongly  his  satisfaction  at  being  rid 
of  Harboro — and  Sylvia  perversely  resented 
the  disloyalty  of  it,  the  implication  of  intrigue 
carried  on  behind  a  mask. 

And  then  she  forgot  her  scruples.  The 
boy  who  had  chosen  her  horse  for  her  had 
known  what  he  was  doing,  after  all.  The 
animal  galloped  with  a  dashing  yet  easy 
movement  which  was  delightful.  She  be- 
came exhilarated  by  a  number  of  things. 
The  freedom  of  movement,  the  occasional 
touch  of  her  knee  against  Runyon's,  the 
mysterious  vagueness  of  the  road,  now  that 
the  moon  had  gone  down. 


224  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Perhaps  they  both  forgot  themselves  for 
a  time,  and  then  Sylvia  checked  her  horse 
with  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  a  sound  of 
dismay.  **We  ought  to  wait  for  them  to 
catch  up,"  she  said. 

Runyon  was  all  solicitude  immediately. 
"We  seem  to  have  outdistanced  them  com- 
pletely," he  said.  They  turned  their  horses 
about  so  that  they  faced  the  north.  "I 
can't  even  hear  them,"  he  added.  Then, 
with  the  irrepressible  optimism  which  was 
his  outstanding  quality,  he  added  laughingly: 
"They'll  be  along  in  a  few  minutes.  But 
wasn't  it  a  fine  ride  ? " 

She  had  not  framed  an  answer  to  this 
question  when  her  mind  was  diverted  swiftly 
into  another  channel.  She  held  her  head 
high  and  her  body  became  slightly  rigid. 
She  glanced  apprehensively  at  Runyon  and 
realized  that  he,  too,  was  listening  intently. 

A  faint  roar  which  seemed  to  come  from 
nowhere  fell  on  their  ears.  The  darkness 
swiftly  deepened,  so  that  the  man  and  the 
woman  were  almost  invisible  to  each  other. 
That  sinister  roaring  sound  came  closer,  as 
if  mighty  waters  were  rolling  toward  them 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH         225 

far  away.  The  northern  sky  became  black, 
as  if  a  sable  curtain  had  been  let  down. 

And  then  upon  Sylvia's  startled  senses 
the  first  breath  of  the  norther  broke.  The 
little  winds,  running  ahead  as  an  advance- 
guard  of  the  tempest,  flung  themselves  upon 
her  and  caught  at  her  hair  and  her  riding- 
habit.    They  chilled  her. 

"A  norther!"  she  exclaimed,  and  Runyon 
called  back  through  the  whistle  of  the  winds : 
"It's  coming!" 

His  voice  had  the  quality  of  a  battle-cry, 
joined  to  the  shouts  of  the  descending  storm. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Fortunately,  Runyon  knew  what  to  do 
in  that  hour  of  earth's  desolation  and  his 
own  and  Sylvia's  peril. 

He  sprang  from  his  horse  and  drew  his 
bridle-rein  over  his  arm;  and  then  he  laid 
a  firm  hand  on  the  bridle  of  Sylvia's  horse. 
His  own  animal  he  could  trust  in  such  an 
emergency;  but  the  other  had  seemed  to 
lose  in  height  and  he  knew  that  it  was  trem- 
bling. It  might  make  a  bolt  for  it  at  any 
moment. 

"Keep  your  seat,"  he  shouted  to  Sylvia, 
and  she  realized  that  he  was  leading  both 
horses  away  from  the  road.  She  caught 
glimpses  of  his  wraith-like  figure  as  the 
whirling  dust-cloud  that  enveloped  them 
thinned  occasionally. 

She  knew  that  he  had  found  a  clump  of 
mesquite  after  a  faltering  progress  of  per- 
haps fifty  yards.  Their  progress  was  checked, 
then,  and  she  knew  he  was  at  the  hitching 

straps,  and  that  he  was  tethering  the  animals 

226 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  227 

to  the  trees.  The  powdered  dust  and  sand 
were  stinging  her  face,  and  the  cold  wind  was 
chilHng  her;  yet  she  felt  a  strange  elation 
as  she  realized  that  she  was  here  alone  with 
Runyon,  and  that  he  was  managing  the 
situation  with  deftness  and  assurance. 

She  felt  his  hand  groping  for  her  then, 
and,  leaning  forward,  she  was  borne  to  the 
ground.  He  guided  her  to  a  little  depression 
and  made  her  understand  that  she  was  to 
sit  down.  He  had  removed  his  saddle- 
blanket  and  spread  it  on  the  earth,  forming 
a  rug  for  her.  "The  rehozoV  he  cried  in 
her  ear. 

"It's  fastened  to  the  pommel,"  she  called 
back. 

She  could  neither  see  nor  hear  him;  but 
soon  he  was  touching  her  on  the  shoulders. 
The  rehozo  was  flung  out  on  the  wind  so  that 
it  unfolded,  and  he  was  spreading  it  about  her. 

She  caught  his  hand  and  drew  him  close 
so  that  she  could  make  herself  heard. 
"There's  room  under  it  for  two,"  she  said. 
She  did  not  release  his  hand  until  he  had 
sat  down  by  her.  Together  they  drew  the 
rebozo  about  them  like  a  little  tent. 


228  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Immediately  they  were  transformed  into 
two  sheltered  and  undismayed  Arabs.  The 
rebozo  was  pinioned  behind  them  and  under 
their  feet.  The  finest  dust  could  not  pene- 
trate its  warp  and  woof.  The  wind  was  as 
a  mighty  hand,  intent  upon  bearing  them  to 
earth,  but  it  could  not  harm  them. 

Sylvia  heard  Runyon's  musical  laugh.  He 
bent  his  head  close  to  hers.  *' We're  all  right 
now,"  he  said. 

He  had  his  arm  across  her  shoulder  and 
was  drawing  her  close.  "It's  going  to  be 
cold,"  he  said,  as  if  in  explanation.  He 
seemed  as  joyous  as  a  boy — as  innocent  as 
a  boy.  She  inclined  her  head  until  it  rested 
on  his  shoulder,  so  that  both  occupied  little 
more  than  the  space  of  one.  The  storm 
made  this  intimacy  seem  almost  natural; 
it  made  it  advantageous,  too. 

And  so  the  infinite  sands  swarmed  over 
them,  and  the  norther  shrieked  in  their 
ears,  and  the  earth's  blackness  swallowed 
them  up  until  they  seemed  alone  as  a  man 
and  a  woman  never  had  been  alone  before. 

The  rebozo  sagged  about  them  at  inter- 
vals,  weighted    down   with   the    dust;     but 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  229 

again  It  rippled  like  a  sail  when  an  eccentric 
gust  swept  away  the  accumulated  sediment. 

The  desert  was  a  thing  of  blank  darkness. 
A  protected  torch  would  have  been  invisible 
to  one  staring  toward  it  a  dozen  steps  away. 
A  temporary  death  had  invaded  the  world. 
There  was  neither  movement  nor  sound  save 
the  frenzied  dance  of  dust  and  the  whis- 
tle of  winds  which  seemed  shunted  south- 
ward from  the  north  star. 

Runyon's  hand  travelled  soothingly  from 
Sylvia's  shoulder  to  her  cheek.  He  held 
her  to  him  with  a  tender,  eloquent  pressure. 
He  was  the  man,  whose  duty  it  was  to  pro- 
tect; and  she  was  the  woman,  in  need  of 
protection. 

And  Sylvia  thought  darkly  of  the  in- 
genuities of  Destiny  which  set  at  naught 
the  petty  steps  which  the  proprieties  have 
taken — as  if  the  gods  were  never  so  diverted 
as  when  they  were  setting  the  stage  for 
tragedy,  or  as  if  the  struggles  and  defeats 
of  all  humankind  were  to  them  but  a  proper 
comedy. 

But  Runyon  was  thinking  how  rare  a 
thing  it  is  for  a  man  and  a  woman  to  be 


230  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

quite  alone  in  the  world;  how  the  walls 
of  houses  listen,  and  windows  are  as  eyes 
which  look  in  as  well  as  out;  how  highways 
forever  hold  their  malicious  gossips  to  note 
the  movements  of  every  pair  who  do  not 
walk  sedately;  how  you  may  mount  the 
stairway  of  a  strange  house — and  encounter 
one  who  knows  you  at  the  top,  and  who 
laughs  in  his  sleeve;  how  you  may  emerge 
from  the  house  in  which  you  have  felt  safe 
from  espionage — only  to  encounter  a  familiar 
talebearer  at  the  door. 

But  here  indeed  were  he  and  Sylvia  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Before  the  next  spring  came  two  entirely 
irreconcilable  discoveries  were  made  in  Eagle 
Pass. 

The  first  of  these  was  made  by  certain 
cronies  of  the  town  who  found  their  beer 
flat  if  there  was  not  a  bit  of  gossip  to  go 
with  it,  and  it  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
affair  between  Sylvia  and  Runyon  was  sure 
to  end  disastrously  if  it  did  not  immediately 
end  otherwise. 

The  other  discovery  was  made  by  Har- 
boro,  and  it  was  to  the  effect  that  Sylvia 
had  at  last  blossomed  out  as  a  perfectly 
ideal  wife. 

A  certain  listlessness  had  fallen  from  her 
like  a  shadow.  Late  in  the  winter — it  was 
about  the  time  of  the  ride  to  the  Quemado, 
Harboro  thought  it  must  have  been — a 
change  had  come  over  her.  There  was  a 
glad  tranquillity  about  her  now  Which  was 
as  a  tonic  to  him.     She  was  no  longer  given 

to  dark  utterances  which  he  could  not  under- 

231 


232  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

stand.  She  was  devoted  to  him  in  a  gentle, 
almost  maternal  fashion — studying  his  needs 
and  moods  alertly  and  affectionately.  Some- 
thing of  the  old  tempestuous  ardor  was 
gone,  but  that,  of  course,  was  natural.  Har- 
boro  did  not  know  the  phrases  of  old  An- 
tonia  or  he  would  have  said:  "It  is  the  time 
of  embers."  She  was  softly  solicitous  for 
him;  still  a  little  wistful  at  times,  to  be 
sure;  but  then  that  was  the  natural  Sylvia. 
It  was  the  quality  which  made  her  more 
wonderful  than  any  other  woman  in  the 
world. 

And  Sylvia.'^  Sylvia  had  found  a  new 
avenue  of  escape  from  that  tedium  which 
the  Sylvias  of  the  world  have  never  been 
able  to  endure. 

Not  long  after  that  ride  to  the  Quemado  a 
horse  had  been  brought  to  her  front  gate  dur- 
ing a  forenoon  when  Harboro  was  over  the 
river  at  work.  Unassisted  she  had  mounted 
it  and  ridden  away  out  the  Quemado  Road. 
A  mile  out  she  had  turned  toward  the  Rio 
Grande,  and  had  kept  to  an  indistinct  trail 
until  she  came  to  a  hidden  adohe  hut,  pre- 
sided over  by  an  ancient  Mexican. 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  233 

To  this  isolated  place  had  come,  too, 
Runyon — Runyon,  whose  dappled  horse  had 
been  left  hidden  in  the  mesquite  down  by 
the  river,  where  the  man's  duties  lay. 

And  here,  in  undisturbed  seclusion,  they 
had  continued  that  intimacy  which  had 
begun  on  the  night  of  the  norther.  They 
were  like  two  children,  forbidden  the  com- 
panionship of  each  other,  who  find  something 
particularly  delicious  in  an  unguessed  ren- 
dezvous. All  that  is  delightful  in  a  temporary 
escape  from  the  sense  of  responsibility  was 
theirs.  Their  encounters  were  as  gay  and 
light  as  that  of  two  poppies  in  the  sun, 
flung  together  by  a  friendly  breeze.  They 
were  not  conscious  of  wronging  any  one — 
not  more  than  a  little,  at  least — though  the 
ancient  genius  of  the  place,  a  Mexican  who 
had  lost  an  eye  in  a  jealous  fight  in  his  youth, 
used  to  shake  his  head  sombrely  when  he 
went  away  from  his  hut,  leaving  them  alone; 
and  there  was  anxiety  in  the  glance  of  that 
one  remaining  eye  as  he  kept  a  lookout  over 
the  trail,  that  his  two  guests  might  not  be 
taken  by  surprise. 

Sometimes    they    remained    in    the    hut 


234  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

throughout  the  entire  noon-hour,  and  on  these 
occasions  their  finely  discreet  and  taciturn 
old  host  placed  food  before  them.  Goat's 
milk  was  brought  from  an  earthenware  vessel 
having  its  place  on  a  wooden  hook  under  the 
eaves  of  the  house;  and  there  was  a  deHcious 
stew  of  dried  goat's  flesh,  served  with  a 
sauce  which  contained  just  a  faint  flavor  of 
peppers  and  garhc  and  herbs.  And  there 
was  pan,  as  delicate  as  wafers,  and  coff^ee. 

Time  and  again,  throughout  the  winter, 
the  same  horse  made  its  appearance  at 
Sylvia's  gate  at  the  same  hour,  and  Sylvia 
mounted  and  rode  away  out  the  Quemado 
Road  and  disappeared,  returning  early  in 
the  afternoon. 

If  you  had  asked  old  Antonia  about  these 
movements  of  her  mistress  she  would  have 
said:  ''Does  not  the  senora  need  the  air?" 
And  she  would  have  added:  ''She  is  young." 
And  finally  she  would  have  said:  "I  know 
nothing." 

It  is  a  matter  of  knowledge  that  occa- 
sionally Sylvia  would  meet  the  boy  from 
the  stable  when  he  arrived  at  the  gate  and 
instruct  him  gently  to  take  the  horse  away. 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH         235 

as  she  would  not  require  it  that  day;  and  I 
am  not  sure  she  was  not  trying  still  to  fight 
the  battle  which  she  had  already  lost;  but 
this,  of  course,  is  mere  surmise. 

And  then  a  little  cog  in  the  machine 
slipped. 

A  ranchman  who  lived  out  on  the  north 
road  happened  to  be  in  Eagle  Pass  one  eve- 
ning as  Harboro  was  passing  through  the 
town  on  his  way  home  from  work.  The 
ranchman's  remark  was  entirely  innocent, 
but  rather  unfortunate.  "A  very  excellent 
horsewoman,  Mrs.  Harboro,"  he  remarked, 
among  other  things. 

Harboro  did  not  understand. 

"I  met  her  riding  out  the  road  this  fore- 
noon," explained  the  ranchman. 

''Oh,  yes!"  said  Harboro.  "Yes,  she 
enjoys  riding.  Fm  sorry,  on  her  account,  that 
I  haven't  more  liking  for  it  myself." 

He  went  on  up  the  hill,  pondering.  It 
was  strange  that  Sylvia  had  not  told  him 
that  she  meant  to  go  for  a  ride.  She  usually 
went  into  minute  details  touching  her  out- 
ings. 

He  expected  her  to  mention  the  matter 


236  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

when  he  got  home,  but  she  did  not  do  so. 
She  seemed  disposed  not  to  confide  in  him 
throughout  the  entire  evening,  and  finally 
he  remarked  with  an  air  of  suddenly  re- 
membering: "And  so  you  went  riding  to- 
day?" 

She  frowned  and  lowered  her  eyes.  She 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember.  *'Why, 
yes,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 
"Yes,  I  felt  rather  dull  this  morning.  You 
know  I  enjoy  riding.'* 

"I  know  you  do,"  he  responded  cordially. 
"I'd  like  you  to  go  often,  if  you'll  be  careful 
not  to  take  any  chances."  He  smiled  at 
the  recollection  of  the  outcome  of  that  ride 
of  theirs  to  the  Quemado,  and  of  the  excite- 
ment with  which  they  compared  experiences 
when  they  got  back  home.  Sylvia  and 
Runyon  had  made  a  run  for  it  and  had  got 
home  before  the  worst  of  it  came,  she  had 
said.  But  Harboro  and  the  General  Manager 
had  waited  until  the  storm  had  spent  itself, 
both  sitting  in  the  carriage  with  their  hand- 
kerchiefs pressed  to  their  nostrils,  and  their 
coats  drawn  up  about  their  heads.  He  re- 
membered, too,  how  the   dust-fog  had  lin- 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  237 

gered  in  the  air  until  well  into  the  next  day, 
like  a  ghost  which  could  not  be  laid. 

He  brought  himself  back  from  the  recol- 
lection of  that  night.  "If  you  like,  I'll  have 
the  horse  sent  every  day — or,  better  still, 
you  shall  have  a  horse  of  your  own." 

"No,"  replied  Sylvia,  "I  might  not  care 
to  go  often."  She  had  let  her  hair  down 
and  was  brushing  it  thoughtfully.  "The 
things  which  are  ordered  for  you  in  advance 
are  always  half  spoiled,"  she  added.  "It's 
better  to  think  of  things  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  do  them." 

He  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  That 
wasn't  his  way,  certainly;  but  then  she  was 
still  occasionally  something  of  an  enigma  to 
him.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  his 
mind.  He  was  provoked  that  it  came  back 
again  and  again,  as  if  there  were  something 
extraordinary  about  it,  something  myste- 
rious. "She  only  went  for  a  ride,"  he  said  to 
himself  late  at  night,  as  if  he  were  defend- 
ing her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  MONTH  later  Harboro  came  home  one 
afternoon  to  find  an  envelope  addressed  to 
him  on  the  table  in  the  front  hall. 

He  was  glad  afterward  that  Sylvia  was 
engaged  with  Antonia  in  the  dining-room, 
and  did  not  have  a  chance  to  observe  him  as 
he  examined  the  thing  which  that  envelope 
contained. 

It  was  a  statement  from  one  of  the  stables 
of  the  town,  and  it  set  forth  the  fact  that 
Harboro  was  indebted  to  the  stable  for 
horse-hire.  There  were  items,  showing  that 
on  seven  occasions  during  the  past  month 
a  horse  had  been  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
Mrs.  Harboro. 

Harboro  was  almost  foolishly  bewildered. 
Sylvia  had  gone  riding  seven  times  during 
the  month,  and  she  had  not  even  mentioned 
the  matter  to  him !  Clearly  here  was  a  mys- 
tery.    Her  days  were  not  sufficiently  full  of 

events  to  make  seven  outings  a  matter  of 

238 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  239 

little  consequence  to  her.  She  was  not 
given  to  reticence,  even  touching  very  little 
things.  She  had  some  reason  for  not  wish- 
ing him  to  know  of  these  movements  of 
hers. 

But  this  conclusion  was  absurd,  of  course. 
She  would  understand  that  the  bill  for  ser- 
vices rendered  would  eventually  come  to 
him.  He  was  relieved  when  that  conclu- 
sion came  to  him.  No,  she  was  not  seeking 
to  make  a  mystery  out  of  the  matter.  Still, 
the  question  recurred:  Why  had  she  avoided 
even  the  most  casual  mention  of  these  out- 
ings ? 

He  replaced  the  statement  in  the  envelope 
thoughtfully  and  put  it  away  in  his  pocket. 
He  was  trying  to  banish  the  look  of  dark 
introspection  from  his  eyes  when  Sylvia 
came  in  from  the  kitchen  and  gave  a  little 
cry  of  joy  at  sight  of  him.  She  was  happy 
at  the  sight  of  him — Harboro  knew  it.  Yet 
the  cloud  did  not  lift  from  his  brow  as  he 
drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  slowly.  She 
was  keeping  a  secret  from  him.  The  con- 
clusion was  inescapable. 

His  impulse  was  to  face  the  thing  frankly. 


240  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

affectionately.  He  had  only  to  ask  her  to 
explain  and  the  thing  would  be  cleared  up. 
But  for  the  first  time  he  found  it  difficult 
to  be  frank  with  her.  If  the  thing  he  felt 
was  not  a  sense  of  injury,  it  was  at  least  a 
sense  of  mystery:  of  resentment,  too.  He 
could  not  deny  that  he  felt  resentful.  At 
the  foundation  of  his  consciousness  there 
was,  perhaps,  the  belief  and  the  hope  that 
she  would  explain  voluntarily.  He  felt  that 
something  precious  would  be  saved  to  him 
if  she  confided  in  him  without  prompting, 
without  urging.  If  he  waited,  perhaps  she 
would  do  so.  His  sense  of  delicacy  forbade 
him  to  inquire  needlessly  into  her  personal 
affairs.  Surely  she  was  being  actuated  by 
some  good  reason.  That  she  was  committed 
to  an  evil  course  was  a  suspicion  which  he 
would  have  rejected  as  monstrous.  Such  a 
suspicion  did  not  occur  to  him. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  until  the  next 
day,  when  a  bolt  fell. 

He  received  another  communication  from 
the  stable.  It  was  an  apology  for  an  error 
that  had  been  made.  The  stableman  found 
that  he  had  no  account  against   Mr.   Har- 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  241 

boro,  but  that  one  which  should  have  been 
made  out  against  Mr.  Runyon  had  been 
sent  to  him  by  mistake. 

Quite  illogically,  perhaps,  Harboro  jumped 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  service  had  really 
been  rendered  to  Sylvia,  as  the  original 
statement  had  said,  and  that  for  some  ob- 
scure reason  it  was  to  be  charged  against 
Runyon.  But  even  now  it  was  not  a  light 
that  he  saw.  Rather,  he  was  enveloped  in 
darkness.  He  heard  the  envelope  crackle 
in  his  clinched  hand.  He  turned  and  climbed 
the  stairs  heavily,  so  that  he  need  not  en- 
counter Sylvia  until  he  had  had  time  to 
think,  until  he  could  understand. 

Sylvia  was  taking  rides,  and  Runyon  was 
paying  for  them.  That  was  to  say,  Runyon 
was  the  moving  factor  in  the  arrangement. 
Therefore,  Runyon  was  deriving  a  pleasure 
from  these  rides  of  Sylvia's.  How.f*  Why, 
he  must  be  riding  with  her.  They  must  be 
meeting  by  secret  appointment. 

Harboro  shook  his  head  fiercely,  like  a 
bull  that  is  being  tortured  and  bewildered 
by  the  matadors.  No,  no !  That  wasn't  the 
way  the  matter  was  to  be  explained.    That 


242  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

could  indicate  only  one  thing — a  thing  that 
was  impossible. 

He  began  at  the  beginning  again.  The 
whole  thing  had  been  an  error.  Sylvia  had 
been  rendered  no  services  at  all.  Runyon 
had  engaged  a  horse  for  his  own  use,  and  the 
bill  had  simply  been  sent  to  the  wrong  place. 
That  was  the  rational  explanation.  It  was 
a  clear  and  sufficient  explanation. 

Harboro  held  his  head  high,  as  if  his  prob- 
lem had  been  solved.  He  held  himself  erect, 
as  if  a  burden  had  been  removed.  He  had 
been  almost  at  the  point  of  making  a  fool 
of  himself,  he  reflected.  Reason  asserted 
itself  victoriously.  But  something  which 
speaks  in  a  softer,  more  insistent  voice  than 
reason  kept  whispering  to  him:  "Runyon 
and  Sylvia!    Runyon  and  Sylvia!" 

He  faced  her  almost  gayly  at  supper.  He 
had  resolved  to  play  the  role  of  a  happy  man 
with  whom  all  is  well.  But  old  Antonia 
looked  at  him  darkly.  Her  old  woman's 
sense  told  her  that  he  was  acting  a  part, 
and  that  he  was  overacting  it.  From  the 
depths  of  the  kitchen  she  regarded  him  as 
he  sat  at  the  table.     She  lifted  her  eyes  like 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  NORTH  243 

one  who  hears  a  signal-cry  when  he  said 
casually: 

"Have  you  gone  riding  any  more  since 
that  other  time,  Sylvia?'" 

Sylvia  hesitated.  "^That  other  time'"  she 
repeated  vaguely.  .  .  .  "Oh,  yes,  once  since 
then — once  or  twice.     Why?" 

"I  believe  you  haven't  mentioned  going." 

"Haven't  I?  It  doesn't  seem  a  very  im- 
portant thing.  I  suppose  I've  thought  you 
wouldn't  be  interested.  I  don't  believe  you 
and  I  look  at  a  horseback-ride  alike.  I  think 
perhaps  you  regard  it  as  quite  an  event." 

He  pondered  that  deliberately.  "You're 
right,"  he  said.  "And  .  .  .  about  paying 
for  the  horse.  I'm  afraid  your  allowance 
isn't  liberal  enough  to  cover  such  things. 
I  must  increase  it  next  month.  Have  you 
been  paying  out  of  your  own  pocket  ?" 

"Yes — yes,  of  course.  It  amounts  to  very 
little." 

His  sombre  glance  travelled  across  the 
table  to  her.  She  was  looking  at  her  plate. 
She  had  the  appearance  of  a  child  encoun- 
tering a  small  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  cov- 
eted pleasure.    There  was  neither  guilt  nor 


244  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

alarm  in  her  bearing,  but  only  an  irksome 
discomfort. 

But  old  Antonia  withdrew  farther  within 
the  kitchen.  She  took  her  place  under  a 
picture  of  the  Virgin  and  murmured  a  little 
prayer. 


PART  VI 
THE  GUEST-CHAMBER 


CHAPTER  XXV 

It  was  remarked  in  the  offices  of  the  Mex- 
ican International  Railroad  about  this  time 
that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  Har- 
boro.  He  made  mistakes  in  his  work.  He 
answered  questions  at  random — or  he  did 
not  answer  them  at  all.  He  passed  people 
in  the  office  and  on  the  street  without  seeing 
them.  But  worse  than  all  this,  he  was  to 
be  observed  occasionally  staring  darkly  into 
the  faces  of  his  associates,  as  if  he  would 
read  something  that  had  been  concealed 
from  him.  He  came  into  one  room  or  an- 
other abruptly,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear 
his  name  spoken. 

His  associates  spoke  of  his  strange  be- 
havior— being  careful  only  to  wait  until  he 
had  closed  his  desk  for  the  day.  They  were 
men  of  different  minds  from  Harboro's.  He 
considered  their  social  positions  matters  which 
concerned  them  only;  but  they  had  duly 
noted  the  fact  that  he  had  been  taken  up 

in   high   places   and   then   dropped   without 

247 


248  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

ceremony.  They  knew  of  his  marriage. 
Certain  rumors  touching  it  had  reached  them 
from  the  American  side. 

They  were  rather  thrilled  at  the  prospect 
of  a  denouement  to  the  story  of  Harboro's 
eccentricity.  They  used  no  harsher  word 
than  that.  They  liked  him  and  they  would 
have  deplored  anything  in  the  nature  of 
a  misfortune  overtaking  him.  But  human 
beings  are  all  very  much  alike  in  one  respect 
— they  find  life  a  tedious  thing  as  a  rule  and 
they  derive  a  stimulus  from  the  tale  of  down- 
fall, even  of  their  friends.  They  are  not 
pleased  that  such  things  happen;  they  are 
merely  interested,  and  they  welcome  the 
break  in  the  monotony  of  events. 

As  for  Harboro,  he  was  a  far  more  deeply 
changed  man  than  they  suspected.  He  was 
making  a  heroic  effort  in  those  days  to  main- 
tain a  normal  bearing.  It  was  only  the 
little  interstices  of  forgetfulness  which  en- 
abled any  one  to  read  even  a  part  of  what 
was  taking  place  in  his  thoughts. 

He  seemed  unchanged  to  Sylvia,  save  that 
he  admitted  being  tired  or  having  a  head- 
ache, when  she  sought  to  enliven  him,  to 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  249 

draw  him  up  to  her  own  plane  of  merriment. 
He  was  reminding  himself  every  hour  of 
the  night  and  day  that  he  must  make  no 
irretrievable  blunder,  that  he  must  do  noth- 
ing to  injure  his  wife  needlessly.  Appearances 
were  against  her,  but  possibly  that  was  all. 

Yet  revelations  were  being  made  to  him. 
Facts  were  arraying  themselves  and  march- 
ing before  him  for  review.  Suspicion  was 
pounding  at  him  like  a  body  blow  that  is 
repeated  accurately  and  relentlessly  in  the 
same  vulnerable  spot. 

Why  had  Sylvia  prevented  him  from  know- 
ing anything  about  her  home  life.?  Why 
had  she  kept  him  and  her  father  apart  ? 
Why  had  Eagle  Pass  ceased  to  know  him, 
immediately  after  his  marriage  ?  And  Peter- 
son, that  day  they  had  gone  across  the  river 
together — ^why  had  Peterson  behaved  so 
clownishly,  following  his  familiar  greeting 
of  Sylvia  I  Peterson  hadn't  behaved  like 
himself  at  all.  And  why  had  she  been  so 
reluctant  to  tell  him  about  the  thing  that 
had  happened  in  her  father's  house  ?  Was 
that  the  course  an  innocent  woman  would 
have  pursued  ? 


250  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

What  was  the  explanation  of  these  things  ? 
Was  the  world  cruel  by  choice  to  a  girl  against 
whom  nothing  more  serious  could  be  charged 
than  that  she  was  obscure  and  poor  ? 

These  reflections  seemed  to  rob  Harboro 
of  the  very  marrow  in  his  bones.  He  would 
have  fought  uncomplainingly  to  the  end 
against  injustice.  He  would  cheerfully  have 
watched  the  whole  world  depart  from  him, 
if  he  had  had  the  consciousness  of  fighting  in 
a  good  cause.  He  had  thought  scornfully  of 
the  people  who  had  betrayed  their  littleness 
by  ignoring  him.  But  what  if  they  had 
been  right,  and  his  had  been  the  offense 
against  them  ? 

He  found  it  almost  unbearably  difficult 
to  walk  through  the  streets  of  Eagle  Pass 
and  on  across  the  river.  What  had  been 
his  strength  was  now  his  weakness.  His 
loyalty  to  a  good  woman  had  been  his  armor; 
but  what  would  right-thinking  people  say  of 
his  loyalty  to  a  woman  who  had  deceived 
him,  and  who  felt  no  shame  in  continuing 
to  deceive  him,  despite  his  efforts  to  sur- 
round her  with  protection  and  love  ? 

And  yet  .  .  .  what  did  he  know  against 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  251 

Sylvia?  She  had  gone  riding — that  was 
all.  That,  and  the  fact  that  she  had  made 
a  secret  of  the  matter,  and  had  perhaps 
given  him  a  false  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  paid  for  her  outings. 

He  must  make  sure  of  much  more  than  he 
already  knew.  Again  and  again  he  clinched 
his  hands  in  the  office  and  on  the  street. 
He  would  not  wrong  the  woman  he  loved. 
He  would  not  accept  the  verdict  of  other 
people.  He  would  have  positive  knowledge 
of  his  own  before  he  acted. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Harboro  had  admitted  a  drop  of  poison 
to  his  veins  and  it  was  rapidly  spreading  to 
every  fibre  of  his  being.  He  was  losing  the 
power  to  think  clearly  where  Sylvia  was 
concerned.  Even  the  most  innocent  acts 
of  hers  assumed  new  aspects;  and  countless 
circumstances  which  in  the  past  had  seemed 
merely  puzzling  to  him  arose  before  him  now 
charged  with  deadly  significance. 

His  days  became  a  torture  to  him.  He 
could  not  lose  himself  in  a  crowd,  and  draw 
something  of  recuperation  from  a  sense  of 
obscurity,  a  feeling  that  he  was  not  observed. 
He  seemed  now  to  be  cruelly  visible  to  every 
man  and  woman  on  both  sides  of  the  river. 
Strangers  who  gave  more  than  the  most 
indifferent  glance  to  his  massive  strength 
and  romantic,  swarthy  face,  with  its  fine 
dark  eyes  and  strong  lines  and  the  luxuriant 
black  mustache,  became  to  him  furtive  wit- 
nesses   to    his    shame — secret    commentators 

upon    his    weakness.      He    recalled    pictures 

252 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  253 

of  men  held  in  pillories  for  communities  to 
gibe  at — and  he  felt  that  his  position  was 
not  unlike  theirs.  He  had  at  times  a  fran- 
tic realization  that  he  had  unconquerable 
strength,  but  that  by  some  ironic  circum- 
stance he  could  not  use  it. 

If  his  days  were  sapping  his  vigor  and 
driving  him  to  the  verge  of  madness,  his 
nights  were  periods  of  a  far  more  destructive 
torture.  He  had  resolved  that  Sylvia  should 
see  no  change  in  him;  he  was  trying  to  per- 
suade himself  that  there  was  no  change  in 
him.  Yet  at  every  tenderly  inquiring  glance 
of  hers  he  felt  that  the  blood  must  start 
forth  on  his  forehead,  that  body  and  skull 
must  burst  from  the  tumult  going  on  within 
them. 

It  was  she  who  brought  matters  to  a  cli- 
max. 

"Harboro,  you're  not  well,"  she  said  one 
evening  when  her  hand  about  his  neck  had 
won  no  response  beyond  a  heavy,  despair- 
ing gesture  of  his  arm.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  vacancy  and  were  not  to  be  won  away 
from  their  unseeing  stare. 

"You're  right,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  trying  to 


254  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

arouse  himself.  "I've  been  trying  to  fight 
against  it,  but  Vm  all  out  of  sorts." 

"You  must  go  away  for  a  while/'  she  said. 
She  climbed  on  his  knee  and  assumed  a 
prettily  tyrannical  manner.  "You've  been 
working  too  hard.  They  must  give  you  a 
vacation,  and  you  must  go  entirely  away. 
For  two  weeks  at  least." 

The  insidious  poison  that  was  destroying 
him  spread  still  further  with  a  swift  rush 
at  that  suggestion.  She  would  be  glad  to 
have  him  out  of  the  way  for  a  while.  Were 
not  unfaithful  wives  always  eager  to  send 
their  husbands  away.?  He  closed  his  eyes 
resolutely  and  his  hands  gripped  the  arms 
of  his  chair.  Then  a  plan  which  he  had 
been  vaguely  shaping  took  definite  form. 
She  was  really  helping  him  to  do  the  thing 
he  felt  he  must  do. 

He  turned  to  her  heavily  like  a  man  under 
the  influence  of  a  drug.  "Yes,  I'll  go  away 
for  a  while,"  he  agreed.  "I'll  make  arrange- 
ments right  away — to-morrow." 

"And  I'll  go  with  you,"  she  said  with  de- 
cision, "and  help  to  drive  the  evil  hours 
away."  She  had  his  face  between  her  hands 
and  was  smiling  encouragingly. 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  255 

The  words  were  like  a  dagger  thrust. 
Surely,  they  were  proof  of  fidelity,  of  affec- 
tion, and  in  his  heart  he  had  condemned  her. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  with  me,  Sylvia?'* 
he  asked.    His  voice  had  become  husky. 

She  drew  back  from  him  as  if  she  were 
performing  a  little  rite.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "Harboro!"  she  cried,  "do  you  need 
to  ask  me  that?"  Her  fingers  sought  his 
face  and  travelled  with  ineffable  tenderness 
from  line  to  line.  It  was  as  if  she  were  play- 
ing a  little  love-lyric  of  her  own  upon  a 
beautiful  harp.  And  then  she  fell  upon  his 
breast  and  pressed  her  cheek  to  his.  "Har- 
boro!"  she  cried  again.  She  had  seen  only 
the  suffering  in  his  eyes. 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  and  leaned  back 
with  closed  eyes.  A  hymn  of  praise  was 
singing  through  all  his  being.  She  loved 
him!  she  loved  him!  And  then  that  hymn 
of  praise  sank  to  pianissimo  notes  and  was 
transformed  by  some  sort  of  evil  magic 
to  something  shockingly  different.  It  was 
as  if  a  skilful  yet  unscrupulous  musician 
were  constructing  a  revolting  medley,  plac- 
ing the  sacred  song  in  juxtaposition  with 
the  obscene  ditty.     And  the  words   of  the 


256  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

revolting  thing  were  "Runyon  and  Sylvia! 
Runyon  and  Sylvia!" 

He  opened  his  eyes  resolutely.  "We're 
making  too  much  over  a  little  matter,"  he 
said  with  an  obvious  briskness  which  hid 
the  cunning  in  his  mind.  "I  suppose  I've 
been  sticking  to  things  too  close.  I'll  take  a 
run  down  the  line  and  hunt  up  some  of  the 
old  fellows — down  as  far  as  Torreon  at  least. 
I'll  rough  it  a  little.  I  suspect  things  have 
been  a  little  too  soft  for  me  here.  Maybe 
some  of  the  old-timers  will  let  me  climb  up 
into  a  cab  and  run  an  engine  again.  That's 
the  career  for  a  man — ^with  the  distance  rush- 
ing upon  you,  and  your  engine  swaying  like 
a  bird  in  the  air!    That  will  fix  me!" 

He  got  up  with  an  air  of  vigor,  helping 
Sylvia  to  her  feet.  "It  wouldn't  be  the 
sort  of  experience  a  woman  could  share," 
he  added.  "You'll  stay  here  at  home  and 
get  a  little  rest  yourself.  I  must  have  been 
spoiling  things  for  you,  too."  He  looked  at 
her  shrewdly. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  honestly.  "I'm  only 
sorry  I  didn't  realize  earlier  that  you  need 
to  get  away." 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  257 

She  went  out  of  the  room  with  something 
of  the  regal  industry  of  the  queen  bee,  as  if 
she  were  the  natural  source  of  those  agencies 
which  sustain  and  heal.  He  heard  her  as 
she  busied  herself  in  their  bedroom.  He 
knew  that  she  was  already  making  prepara- 
tions for  that  journey  of  his.  She  was  sing- 
ing a  soft,  wordless  song  in  her  throat  as  she 
worked. 

And  Harboro,  with  an  effect  of  listening 
with  his  eyes,  stood  in  his  place  for  a  long 
interval,  and  then  shook  his  head  slowly. 

He  could  not  believe  in  her;  he  would 
not  believe  in  her.  At  least  he  would  not 
believe  in  her  until  she  had  been  put  to  the 
test  and  met  the  test  triumphantly.  He  could 
not  believe  in  her;  and  yet  it  seemed  equally 
impossible  for  him  to  hold  with  assurance 
to  his  unbelief. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Returning  from  the  office  the  next  fore- 
noon, Harboro  stopped  at  the  head  of  the 
short  street  on  which  the  chief  stable  of 
Eagle  Pass  was  situated. 

He  had  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a 
leave  of  absence,  which  was  to  be  for  one 
week  with  the  privilege  of  having  it  extended 
to  twice  that  time  if  he  felt  he  needed  it. 
In  truth,  his  immediate  superior  had  heartily 
approved  of  the  plan  of  his  going  for  an 
outing.  He  had  noticed,  he  admitted,  that 
Harboro  hadn't  been  altogether  fit  of  late. 
He  was  glad  he  had  decided  to  go  away  for 
a  few  days.  He  good-naturedly  insisted 
upon  the  leave  of  absence  taking  effect  im- 
mediately. 

And  Harboro  had  turned  back  toward 
Eagle  Pass  pondering  darkly. 

He  scanned  the  street  in  the  direction  of 
the  stable.     A  stable-boy  was   exercising  a 

young  horse  in  the  street,   leading  it  back 

258 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  259 

and  forth,  but  otherwise  the  thoroughfare 
seemed  somnolently  quiet. 

He  sauntered  along  until  he  came  to  the 
stable  entrance.  He  had  the  thought  of 
entering  into  a  casual  conversation  with  the 
proprietor.  He  would  try  to  get  at  the  ac- 
tual facts  touching  that  mistake  the  stable 
people  had  made.  He  would  not  question 
them  too  pointedly.  He  would  not  betray 
the  fact  that  he  believed  something  was 
wrong.  He  would  put  his  questions  casually, 
innocently. 

The  boy  was  just  turning  in  with  the 
horse  he  had  been  exercising.  He  regarded 
Harboro  expectantly.  He  was  the  boy  who 
had  brought  the  horses  on  the  night  of  that 
ride  to  the  Quemado. 

"I  didn't  want  anything,"  said  Harboro; 
*'that  is,  nothing  in  particular.  I'll  be  likely 
to  need  a  horse  in  a  day  or  two,  that's  all." 

He  walked  leisurely  into  the  shady,  cool 
place  of  pungent  odors.  He  had  just  ascer- 
tained that  the  proprietor  was  out  when  his 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  dog  which  lay 
with  perfect  complacency  under  a  rather 
good-looking  horse. 


26o  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"A  pretty  dangerous  place,  isn't  it?"  he 
asked  of  the  stable-boy. 

"You  would  think  so,  wouldn't  you?  But 
it  isn't.  They're  friends.  You'll  always 
find  them  together  when  they  can  get  to- 
gether. When  Prince — that's  the  horse — is 
out  anywhere,  we  have  to  pen  old  Mose  up 
to  keep  him  from  following.  Once  when  a 
fellow  hired  Prince  to  make  a  trip  over  to 
Spofford,  old  Mose  got  out,  two  or  three 
hours  later,  and  followed  him  all  the  way 
over.  He  came  back  with  him  the  next 
day,  grinning  as  if  he'd  done  something 
great.  We  never  could  figure  out  how  old 
Mose  knew  where  he  had  gone.  Might 
have  smelled  out  his  trail.  Or  he  might  have 
heard  them  talking  about  going  to  Spofford, 
and  understood.  The  more  you  know  about 
dogs  the  less  you  know  about  them — same 
as  humans." 

He  went  back  farther  into  the  stable  and 
busied  himself  with  a  harness  that  needed 
mending. 

Harboro  was  looking  after  him  with  pecu- 
liar intensity.  He  looked  at  the  horse, 
which  stood  sentinel-like,  above  the  drowsing 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  261 

dog.  Then  he  engaged  the  stable-boy  in 
further  conversation. 

"A  pretty  good-looking  horse,  too,"  he 
said.  And  when  the  boy  nodded  without 
enthusiasm,  he  added:  "By  the  way,  I  sup- 
pose it's  usually  your  job  to  get  horses  ready 
when  people  want  them?" 

"Yes,  mostly." 

Harboro  put  a  new  note  of  purposefulness 
into  his  voice.  "I  believe  you  send  a  horse 
around  for  Mrs.  Harboro  occasionally.?" 

"Oh,  yes;   every  week  or  so,  or  oftener." 

Harboro  walked  to  the  boy's  side  and 
drew  his  wallet  from  his  pocket  deliberately. 
"I  wish,"  he  said,  "that  the  next  time  Mrs. 
Harboro  needs  a  horse  you'd  send  this  fine 
animal  to  her.  I  have  an  idea  it  would 
please  her.  Will  you  remember?"  He  pro- 
duced a  bank-note  and  placed  it  slowly  in 
the  boy's  hand. 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him  dubiously,  and 
then  understood.    "I'll  remember,"  he  said. 

Harboro  turned  away,  but  at  the  entrance 
he  stopped.  "You'd  understand,  of  course, 
that  the  dog  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  go  along," 
he  called  back. 


262  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

"Oh,  yes.  Old  Mose  would  be  penned  up. 
Fd  see  to  it." 

"And  I  suppose,"  said  Harboro  finally, 
"that  if  I'd  telephone  to  you  any  day  it 
wouldn't  take  you  long  to  get  a  horse  ready 
for  me,  would  it  ?  I've  been  thinking  of 
using  a  horse  a  little  myself." 

He  was  paying  little  attention  to  the 
boy's  assurances  as  he  went  away.  His 
step  had  become  a  little  firmer  as  he  turned 
toward  home.  He  seemed  more  like  himself 
when  he  entered  the  house  and  smiled  into 
his  wife's  alertly  questioning  eyes. 

"It's  all  right,  I'm  to  get  away,"  he  ex- 
plained. "I'm  away  now,  strictly  speaking. 
I  want  to  pack  up  a  few  things  some  time 
to-day  and  get  the  early  morning  train  for 
Torreon." 

She  seemed  quite  gleeful  over  this  cheerful 
Information.  She  helped  him  make  selec- 
tion of  the  things  he  would  need,  and  she 
was  ready  with  many  helpful  suggestions. 
It  seemed  that  his  train  left  the  Eagle  Pass 
station  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning — a 
rather  awkward  hour;  but  he  did  not  mind, 
be  said. 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  263 

They  spent  the  day  together  without  any 
restraints,  seemingly.  There  were  a  good 
many  things  to  do,  and  Sylvia  was  happy 
in  the  thought  of  serving  him.  If  he  regarded 
her  now  and  again  with  an  expression  of 
smouldering  fire  in  his  eyes  she  was  un- 
aware of  the  fact.  She  sang  as  she  worked, 
interrupting  her  song  at  frequent  intervals 
to  admonish  him  against  this  forgetfulness 
or  that. 

She  seemed  to  be  asleep  when,  an  hour 
before  daybreak,  he  stirred  and  left  her  side. 
But  she  was  awake  immediately. 

"Is  it  time  to  go  V'  she  asked  sleepily. 

"I  hoped  I  needn't  disturb  you,"  he  said. 
"Yes,  I  ought  to  be  getting  on  my  way  to 
the  station.'' 

She  lay  as  if  she  were  under  a  spell  while 
he  dressed  and  made  ready  to  go  out.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  though  she  seemed  to 
see  nothing.  Perhaps  she  was  merely  stupid 
as  a  result  of  being  awakened;  or  it  may  be 
that  indefinable,  foreboding  thoughts  filled 
her  mind. 

When  he  came  to  say  good-by  to  her  she 


264  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

put  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "Try  to  have 
a  good  time/'  she  said,  "and  come  back  to 
me  your  old  self  again/' 

She  felt  fearfully  alone  as  she  heard  him 
descend  the  stairs.  She  held  her  head  away 
from  the  pillow  until  she  heard  the  sharp 
closing  of  the  street-door.  "He's  gone,"  she 
said.  She  shivered  a  little  and  drew  the 
covers  more  closely  about  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

RuNYON  rode  out  past  Harboro's  house 
that  afternoon. 

Sylvia,  in  her  place  by  the  window,  watched 
him  come.  In  the  distance  he  assumed  a 
new  aspect  in  her  eyes.  She  thought  of  him 
impersonally — as  a  thrilling  picture.  She  re- 
joiced in  the  sight  of  him  as  one  may  in  the 
spectacle  of  an  army  marching  with  banners 
and  music. 

And  then  he  became  to  her  a  glorious 
troubadour,  having  no  relationship  with 
prosaic  affairs  and  common  standards,  but 
a  care-free  creature  to  be  loved  and  praised 
because  of  his  song;  to  be  heard  gladly  and 
sped  on  his  way  with  a  sigh. 

The  golden  notes  of  his  songs  out  at  the 
Quemado  echoed  in  her  ears  like  the  mourn- 
ful sound  of  bells  across  lonely  fields.  Her 
heart  ached  again  at  the  be.auty  of  the  songs 
he  had  sung. 

.  .  .   She  went  down-stairs  and  stood  by 

the  gate,  waiting  for  him. 

265 


266  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

They  talked  for  a  little  while,  Runyon 
bending  down  toward  her.  She  thought  of 
him  as  an  incomparably  gay  and  happy 
creature.  His  musical  powers  gave  him  a 
mystic  quality  to  her.  She  caressed  his 
horse's  mane  and  thrilled  as  she  touched  it, 
as  if  she  were  caressing  the  man — as  if  he 
were  some  new  and  splendid  type  of  cen- 
taur. And  Runyon  seemed  to  read  her 
mind.  His  face  became  more  ruddy  with 
delight.  His  flashing  eyes  suggested  sound 
rather  than  color — they  were  laughing. 

Their  conference  ended  and  Runyon  rode 
on  up  the  hill.  Sylvia  carried  herself  cir- 
cumspectly enough  as  she  went  back  into  the 
house,  but  she  was  almost  giddy  with  joy 
over  the  final  words  of  that  conference. 
Runyon  had  lowered  his  voice  almost  to 
a  whisper,  and  had  spoken  with  intensity 
as  one  sometimes  speaks  to  children. 

She  did  not  ride  that  afternoon.  It  ap- 
peared that  all  her  interests  for  the  time 
being  were  indoors.  She  spent  much  of  her 
time  among  the  things  which  reminded  her 
most  strongly  of  Harboro;  she  sought  out 
little    services   she   could    perform   for   him, 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  267 

to  delight  him  when  he  returned.  She  talked 
with  more  than  common  interest  with  An- 
tonia,  following  the  old  woman  from  kitchen 
to  dining-room  and  back  again.  She  seemed 
particularly  in  need  of  human  companion- 
ship, of  sympathy.  She  trusted  the  old 
servant  without  reserve.  She  knew  that 
here  was  a  woman  who  would  neither  see 
nor  speak  nor  hear  evil  where  either  she  or 
Harboro  was  concerned.  Not  that  her  fidel- 
ity to  either  of  them  was  particular;  it  was 
the  home  itself  that  was  sacred.  The  flame 
that  warmed  the  house  and  made  the  pot 
boil  was  the  thing  to  be  guarded  at  any 
cost.  Any  winds  that  caused  this  flame 
to  waver  were  evil  winds  and  must  not  be 
permitted  to  blow.  The  old  woman  was 
covertly  discerning;  but  she  had  the  dis- 
cretion common  to  those  who  know  that 
homes  are  built  only  by  a  slow  and  patient 
process — though  they  may  be  destroyed 
easily. 

When  it  came  time  to  light  the  lamps 
Sylvia  went  up  into  her  boudoir.  She  lib- 
erated the  imprisoned  currents  up  in  the 
little  mediaeval  lanterns.    She  drew  the  blinds 


268         CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

so  that  she  should  feel  quite  alone.  She  had 
put  on  one  of  the  dresses  which  made  her 
look  specially  slim  and  soft  and  childlike. 
She  knew  the  garment  became  her,  because 
it  always  brought  a  tender  expression  to 
Harboro's  eyes. 

And  then  she  sat  down  and  waited. 

At  eight  o'clock  Runyon  came.  So  faint 
was  his  summons  at  the  door  that  it  might 
have  been  a  lost  bird  fluttering  in  the  dark. 
But  Sylvia  heard  it.  She  descended  and 
opened  the  door  for  him.  In  the  dimly 
lighted  hall  she  whispered:  "Are  you  sure 
nobody  saw  you  come  ?*' 

He  took  both  her  hands  into  his  and  re- 
plied: "Nobody !" 

They  mounted  the  steps  like  two  chil- 
dren, playing  a  slightly  hazardous  game. 
"The  cat's  away,"  she  said,  her  eyes  beam- 
ing with  joy. 

He  did  not  respond  in  words  but  his  eyes 
completed  the  old  saying. 

They  went  up  into  the  boudoir,  and  he 
put  away  his  coat  and  hat. 

They  tried  to  talk,  each  seeking  to  create 
the   impression   that   what   was    being   said 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  269 

was  quite  important.  But  neither  heard 
what  the  other  said.  They  were  hke  people 
talking  in  a  storm  or  in  a  house  that  is  burn- 
ing down. 

He  took  his  place  at  the  piano  after  a  while. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  promised  to  sing  for 
her — ^for  her  alone.  He  glanced  apprehen- 
sively toward  the  windows,  as  if  to  estimate 
the  distance  which  separated  him  from  the 
highway.  It  was  no  part  of  their  plan  that 
he  should  be  heard  singing  in  Sylvia's  room 
by  casual  passers-by  on  the  Quemado  Road. 

He  touched  the  keys  lightly  and  when 
he  sang  his  voice  seemed  scarcely  to  carry 
across  the  room.  There  was  a  rapid  passage 
on  the  keyboard,  like  the  patter  of  a  pony's 
hoofs  in  the  distance,  and  then  the  words 
came: 

"From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  my  Arab  shod  with  fire  ..." 

It  was  a  work  of  art  in  miniature.  The 
crescendo  passages  were  sung  relatively  with 
that  introductory  golden  whisper  as  a  stand- 
ard. For  the  moment  Sylvia  forgot  that  the 
singer's  shoulders  were  beautifully  compact 


270  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  vigorous.  She  was  visualizing  the  Bed- 
ouin who  came  on  his  horse  to  declare  his 
passion. 

"And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain!  ..." 

She  stood  near  him,  spellbound  by  the 
animation  of  his  face,  the  seeming  reality 
of  his  plea.  He  was  not  a  singer;  he  was 
the  Bedouin  lover. 

There  was  a  fanatic  ardor  in  the  last 
phrase : 

"Till  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold!" 

He  turned  lightly  away  from  the  piano. 
He  was  smiling  radiantly.  He  threw  out  his 
arms  with  an  air  of  inviting  approval;  but 
the  gesture  was  to  her  an  invitation,  a  call. 
She  was  instantly  on  her  knees  beside  him, 
drawing  his  face  down  to  hers.  His  low 
laughter  rippled  against  her  face  as  he  put 
his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her  closer  to 
him. 

They  were  rejoicing  in  an  atmosphere  of 
dusky  gold.  The  light  from  the  mediaeval 
lanterns  fell  on  her  hair  and  on  his  laughing 
face  which  glowed  as  with  a  kind  of  universal 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  271 

good-will.  A  cloud  of  delicate  incense  seemed 
to  envelop  them  as  their  lips  met. 

And  then  the  shadow  fell.  It  fell  when 
the  door  opened  quietly  and  Harboro  came 
into  the  room. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  re- 
garded them  strangely — as  if  his  face  had 
died,  but  as  if  his  eyes  retained  the  power 
of  seeing. 

Sylvia  drew  away  from  Runyon,  not  spas- 
modically, but  as  if  she  were  moving  in  her 
sleep.  She  left  one  hand  on  Runyon's  sleeve. 
She  was  regarding  Harboro  with  an  ex- 
pression of  hopeless  bewilderment.  She 
seemed  incapable  of  speaking.  You  would 
not  have  said  she  was  frightened.  You 
would  have  thought:   "She  has  been  slain." 

Harboro's  lips  were  moving,  but  he  seemed 
unable  to  speak  immediately. 

It  was  Sylvia  who  broke  the  silence. 

"You  shouldn't  have  trickeji  me,  Har- 
boro!" she  said.  Her  voice  had  the  mourn- 
ful quality  of  a  dove's. 

He  seemed  bewildered  anew  by  that.  The 
monstrous  inadequacy  of  it  was  too  much 
for   him.      He    had    tricked    her,    certainly. 


272  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  that  wasn't  a  manly  thing  to  do.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  get  his  faculties  ad- 
justed. Yet  the  words  he  uttered  finally 
were  pathetically  irrelevant,  it  would  have 
seemed.    He  addressed  Runyon. 

"Are  you  the  sort  of  man  who  would  talk 
about — about  this  sort  of  thing?"  he  asked. 

Runyon  had  not  ceased  to  regard  him 
alertly  with  an  expression  which  can  be  de- 
scribed only  as  one  of  infinite  distaste — ^with 
the  acute  discomfort  of  an  irrepressible 
creature  who  shrinks  from  serious  things. 

"I  am  not,"  he  said,  as  if  his  integrity 
were  being  unwarrantably  questioned. 

Harboro's  voice  had  been  strained  like 
that  of  a  man  who  is  dying  of  thirst.  He 
went  on  with  a  disconcerting  change  of  tone. 
He  was  trying  to  speak  more  vigorously, 
more  firmly;  but  the  result  was  like  some 
talking  mechanism  uttering  words  without 
shading  them  properly.  "I  suppose  you  are 
willing  to  marry  her?"  he  asked. 

It  was  Sylvia  who  answered  this.  "He 
does  not  wish  to  marry  me,"  she  said. 

Harboro  seemed  staggered  again.  "I  want 
his  answer  to  that,"  he  insisted. 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  273 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  want  to  marry  him,'* 
continued  Sylvia. 

Harboro  ignored  her.  "What  do  you  say, 
Runyon?" 

"In  view  of  her  unwillingness,  and  the 
fact  that  she  is  already  married " 

"Runyon!"  The  word  was  pronounced 
almost  like  a  snarl.  Runyon  had  adopted 
a  facetious  tone  which  had  stirred  Harboro's 
fury. 

Something  of  the  resiliency  of  Runyon's 
being  vanished  at  that  tone  in  the  other 
man's  voice.  He  looked  at  Harboro  pon- 
deringly,  as  a  child  may  look  at  an  unreason- 
ing parent.  And  then  he  became  alert  again 
as  Harboro  threw  at  him  contemptuously: 
"Go  on;  get  out!" 


PART  VII 
SYLVIA 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Sylvia  did  not  look  at  Runyon  as  he 
picked  up  his  coat  and  hat  and  vanished. 
She  did  not  realize  that  he  had  achieved  a 
perfect  middle  ground  between  an  undig- 
nified escape  and  a  too  dehberate  going. 
She  was  regarding  Harboro  wanly.  "You 
shouldn't  have  come  back/'  she  said.  She 
had  not  moved. 

"I  didn't  go  away,"  said  Harboro. 

Her  features  went  all  awry.  "You 
mean ^" 

"I've  spent  the  day  in  the  guest-chamber. 
I  had  to  find  out.    I  had  to  make  sure." 

"Oh,  Harboro!"  she  moaned;  and  then 
with  an  almost  ludicrously  swift  return  to 
habitual,  petty  concerns:  "You've  had  no 
food  all  day." 

The  bewildered  expression  returned  to  his 

eyes.     "Food!"  he  cried.     He  stared  at  her 

as   if  she  had  gone   insane.     "Food!"   he 

repeated. 

277 


278  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

She  groped  about  as  if  she  were  in  the 
dark.  When  her  fingers  came  into  contact 
with  a  chair  she  drew  it  toward  her  and  sat 
down. 

Harboro  took  a  step  forward.  He  meant 
to  take  a  chair,  too;  but  his  eyes  were  not 
removed  from  hers,  and  she  shrank  back 
with  a  soft  cry  of  terror. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  assured  her. 
He  sat  down  opposite  her,  slowly,  as  very 
ill  people  sit  down. 

As  if  she  were  still  holding  to  some  thought 
that  had  been  in  her  mind,  she  asked:  "What 
do  you  mean  to  do,  then  ?" 

He  was  breathing  heavily.  "What  does  a 
man  do  in  such  a  case  ? "  he  said — to  himself 
rather  than  to  her,  it  might  have  seemed. 
"I  shall  go  away,"  he  said  at  length.  "I 
shall  clear  out."  He  brought  his  hands 
down  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair  heavily — 
not  in  wrath,  but  as  if  surrendering  all  hope 
of  seeing  clearly.  "Though  it  isn't  a  very 
simple  thing  to  do,"  he  added  slowly.  "You 
see,  you're  a  part  of  me.  At  least,  that's 
what  I've  come  to  feel.  And  how  can  a 
man  go  away  from  himself?     How  can   a 


SYLVIA  279 

part  of  a  man  go  away  and  leave  the  other 
part?"  He  lifted  his  fists  and  smote  his 
breast  until  his  whole  body  shook.  And 
then  he  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  his  hands  clasped  before 
him.  He  was  staring  into  vacancy.  He 
aroused  himself  after  a  time.  "Of  course, 
ril  have  to  go,*'  he  said.  He  seemed  to  have 
become  clear  on  that  one  point.  And  then 
he  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  thrust 
his  arms  out  before  him.  "What  were  you 
driving  at,  Sylvia?"  he  asked. 

"Driving  at  .  .  .  .?" 

"I  hadn't  done  you  any  harm.  Why  did 
you  marry  me,  if  you  didn't  love  me  ? " 

"  I  do  love  you ! "  She  spoke  with  an 
intensity  which  disturbed  him. 

"Ah,  you  mean — you  did?" 

"I  mean  I  do!" 

He  arose  dejectedly  with  the  air  of  a^man 
who  finds  it  useless  to  make  any  further 
effort.  "We'll  not  talk  about  it,  then,"  he 
said.    He  turned  toward  the  door. 

"I  do  love  you,"  she  repeated.  She  arose 
and  took  a  step  toward  him,  though  her 
limbs  were   trembling  so  that   they  seemed 


28o  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

unable  to  sustain  her  weight.  "Harboro!" 
she  called  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door. 
''Harboro!  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.'* 
She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  and  Harboro 
turned  and  faced  her  again  wonderingly. 

"If  you'd  try  to  understand,"  she  pleaded. 
"I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  stay.  I  only 
want  you  to  understand."  She  would  not 
permit  her  emotions  to  escape  bounds.  Some- 
thing that  was  courageous  and  honorable 
in  her  forbade  her  to  appeal  to  his  pity 
alone;  something  that  was  shrewd  in  her 
warned  her  that  such  a  course  would  be  of 
no  avail. 

"You  see,  I  was  what  people  call  a  bad 
woman  when  you  first  met  me.  Perhaps 
you  know  that  now  ? " 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"  But  that's  such  a  silly  phrase — a  bad 
woman.  Do  you  suppose  I  ever  felt  like  a 
had  woman — until  now  ?  Even  now  I  can't 
realize  that  the  words  belong  to  me,  though 
I  know  that  according  to  the  rules  I've  done 
you  a  bad  turn,  Harboro." 

She  rocked  in  silence  while  she  gained 
control  over  her  voice. 


SYLVIA  281 

"What  you  don't  know/'  she  said  finally, 
"is  how  things  began  for  me,  in  those  days 
back  in  San  Antonio,  when  I  was  growing 
up.  It's  been  bad  luck  with  me  always; 
or  if  you  don't  believe  in  luck,  then  every- 
thing has  been  a  kind  of  trick  played  on  me 
from  the  beginning.  Not  by  anybody — I 
don't  mean  that.  But  by  something  bigger. 
There's  the  word  Destiny.  .  .  ."  She  be- 
gan to  wring  her  hands  nervously.  "It 
seems  like  telling  an  idle  tale.  When  you 
frame  the  sentences  they  seem  to  have  ex- 
isted in  just  that  form  always.  I  mean, 
losing  my  mother  when  I  was  twelve;  and 
the  dreadful  poverty  of  our  home  and  its 
dulness,  and  the  way  my  father  sat  in  the 
sun  and  seemed  unable  to  do  anything.  I 
don't  believe  he  was  able  to  do  anything. 
There's  the  word  Destiny  again.  We  lived 
in  what's  called  the  Mexican  section,  M(here 
everybody  was  poor.  What's  the  meaning 
of  it;  there  being  whole  neighborhoods  of 
people  who  are  hungry  half  the  time  t 

"I  was  still  nothing  but  a  child  when  I 
began  to  notice  how  others  escaped  from  pov- 
erty a  little — the  Mexican  girls  and  women 


282  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

I  lived  among.  It  seemed  to  be  expected  of 
them.  They  didn't  think  anything  of  it  at 
all.  It  didn't  make  any  difference  in  their 
real  selves,  so  far  as  you  could  see.  They 
went  on  going  to  church  and  doing  what 
little  tasks  they  could  find  to  do — ^just  like 
other  women.  The  only  precaution  they 
took  when  a  man  came  was  to  turn  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Virgin  to  the  wall.  ..." 

Harboro  had  sat  down  again  and  was 
regarding  her  darkly. 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  felt  about  it  just 
as  they  did  when  I  got  older.  You  see,  they 
had  their  religion  to  help  them.  They  had 
been  taught  to  call  the  thing  they  did  a  sin, 
and  to  believe  that  a  sin  was  forgiven  if 
they  went  and  confessed  to  the  priest.  It 
seemed  to  make  it  quite  simple.  But  I 
couldn't  think  of  it  as  a  sin.  I  couldn't 
clearly  understand  what  sin  meant,  but  I 
thought  it  must  be  the  thing  the  happy 
people  were  guilty  of  who  didn't  give  my 
father  something  to  do,  so  that  we  could 
have  a  decent  place  to  live  in.  You  must 
remember  how  young  I  was !  And  so  what 
the  other  girls  called  a  sin  seemed  to  me  .  .  . 


SYLVIA  283 

oh,  something  that  was  untidy — that  wasn't 


nice." 


Harboro  broke  in  upon  her  narrative  when 
she  paused. 

'Tm  afraid  you've  always  been  very  fas- 
tidious." 

She  grasped  at  that  straw  gratefully. 
"Yes,  I  have  been.  There  isn't  one  man  in 
a  hundred  who  appeals  to  me,  even  now." 
And  then  something,  as  if  it  were  the  atmos- 
phere about  her,  clarified  her  vision  for  the 
moment,  and  she  looked  at  Harboro  in  alarm. 
She  knew,  then,  that  he  had  spoken  sarcas- 
tically, and  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  trap 
he  had  set  for  her.  "Oh,  Harboro!  You!" 
she  cried.  She  had  not  known  that  he  could 
be  unkind.  Her  eyes  swam  in  tears  and  she 
looked  at  him  in  agony.  And  in  that  mo- 
ment it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  must 
break.  It  was  as  if  he  looked  on  while  ^Syl- 
via drowned,  and  could  not  put  forth  a  hand 
to  save  her. 

She  conquered  her  emotion.  She  only 
hoped  that  Harboro  would  hear  her  to  the 
end.  She  resumed:  "And  when  I  began 
to   see   that   people   are   expected   to   shape 


284  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

their  own  lives,  mine  had  already  been 
shaped.  I  couldn't  begin  at  a  beginning, 
really;  I  had  to  begin  in  the  middle.  I  had 
to  go  on  weaving  the  threads  that  were 
already  in  my  hands — the  soiled  threads.  I 
met  nice  women  after  a  while — ^women  from 
the  San  Antonio  missions,  I  think  they 
were;  and  they  were  kind  to  me  and  gave 
me  books  to  read.  One  of  them  took  me  to 
the  chapel — ^where  the  clock  ticked.  But 
they  couldn't  really  help  me.  I  think  they 
did  influence  me  more  than  I  realized,  pos- 
sibly; for  my  father  began  to  tell  them  I 
wasn't  at  home  .  .  .  and  he  brought  me 
out  here  to  Eagle  Pass  soon  after  they  be- 
gan to  befriend  me." 

Harboro  was  staring  at  her  with  a  vast 
incredulity.    "And  then — .?"  he  asked. 

"And  then  it  went  on  out  here — though 
it  seemed  different  out  here.  I  had  the  feel- 
ing of  being  shut  out,  here.  In  a  little  town 
people  know.  Life  in  a  little  town  is  like 
just  one  checker-board,  with  a  game  going 
on;  but  the  big  towns  are  like  a  lot  of  checker- 
boards, with  the  men  on  some  of  them  in 
disorder,  and  not  being  watched  at  all." 


SYLVIA  285 

Harboro  was  shaking  his  head  slowly,  and 
she  made  an  effort  to  wipe  some  of  the  black- 
ness from  the  picture.  "You  needn't  believe 
I  didn't  have  standards  that  I  kept  to.  Some 
women  of  my  kind  would  have  lied  or  stolen, 
or  they  would  have  made  mischief  for  people. 
And  then  there  were  the  young  fellows,  the 
mere  boys.  .  .  .  It's  a  real  injury  to  them 
to  find  that  a  girl  they  like  is — is  not  nice. 
They're  so  wonderfully  ignorant.  A  woman 
is  either  entirely  good  or  entirely  bad  in 
their  eyes.  You  couldn't  really  do  any- 
thing to  destroy  their  faith,  even  when  they 
pretended  to  be  rather  rough  and  wicked. 
I  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  bad  woman,  at 
least." 

Harboro's  brow  had  become  furrowed, 
with  impatience,  seemingly.  "But  your  mar- 
riage to  me,  Sylvia?"  He  put  the  question 
accusingly. 

"I  thought  you  knew — at  first.  I  thought 
you  must  know.  There  are  men  who  will 
marry  the  kind  of  woman  I  was.  And  it 
isn't  just  the  little  or  worthless  men,  either. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  big  men,  who  can  under- 
stand and  be  generous.     Up  to  the  time  of 


286  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

our  marriage  I  thought  you  knew  and  that 
you  were  forgiving  everything.  And  at 
last  I  couldn't  bear  to  tell  you.  Not  alone 
from  fear  of  losing  you,  but  I  knew  it  would 
hurt  you  horribly,  and  I  hoped  ...  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  ...  I  was  truly  loyal  to 
you,  Harboro,  until  they  tricked  me  in  my 
father's  house." 

Harboro  continued  to  regard  her,  a  judge 
unmoved.  "And  Runyon,  Sylvia — Run- 
yon  \ "  he  asked  accusingly. 

"I  know  that's  the  thing  you  couldn't 
possibly  forgive,  and  yet  that  seems  the 
slightest  thing  of  all  to  me.  You  can't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  humbled,  and  so  many  in- 
nocent pleasures  taken  away  from  you.  When 
Fectnor  came  back  .  .  .  oh,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  life  itself  mocked  me  and  warned  me 
coldly  that  I  needn't  expect  to  be  any  other 
than  the  old  Sylvia,  clear  to  the  end.  I  had 
begun  to  have  a  little  pride,  and  to  have 
foolish  dreams.  And  then  I  went  back  to 
my  father's  house.  It  wasn't  my  father; 
it  wasn't  even  Fectnor.  It  was  Life  itself 
whipping  me  back  into  my  place  again. 

"...  And  then  Runyon  came.    He  meant 


SYLVIA  287 

pleasure  to  me — nothing  more.  He  seemed 
such  a  gay,  shining  creature!''  She  looked 
at  him  in  the  agony  of  utter  despair.  "I 
know  how  it  appears  to  you;  but  if  you 
could  only  see  how  it  seemed  to  me !" 

'Tm  trying,"  said  Harboro,  unmoved. 

"If  rd  been  a  little  field  of  grass  for  the 
sheep  to  graze  on,  do  you  suppose  I  shouldn't 
have  been  happy  if  the  birds  passed  by,  or 
that  I  shouldn't  have  been  ready  for  the 
sheep  when  they  came  ?  If  I'd  been  a  little 
pool  in  the  desert,  do  you  suppose  I  wouldn't 
have  been  happier  for  the  sunlight,  and  just 
as  ready  for  the  rains  when  they  came  ?" 

He  frowned.  "But  you're  neither  grass 
nor  water,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  I  think  I  am  just  that — ^grass  and 
water.  I  think  that  is  what  we  all  are — 
with  something  of  mystery  added." 

He  seized  upon  that  one  tangible  thought. 
"There  you  have  it,  that  something  of  mys^ 
tery,''  he  said.  "That's  the  thing  that  makes 
the  world  move — that  keeps  people  clean." 

"Yes,"  she  conceded  dully,  "or  makes 
people  set  up  standards  of  their  own  and 
compel  other  people  to  accept  them  whether 


288  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

they  understand  them  or  believe  in  them 
or  not/' 

When  he  again  regarded  her  with  dark 
disapproval  she  went  on: 

"What  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Harboro,  is 
that  my  heart  has  been  like  a  brimming 
cup  for  you  always.  It  was  only  that  which 
ran  over  that  I  gave  to  another.  Runyon 
never  could  have  robbed  the  cup — a  thou- 
sand Runyons  couldn't.  He  was  only  like 
a  flower  to  wear  in  my  hair,  a  ribbon  to  put 
on  for  an  outing.  But  you  .  .  .  you  were 
the  hearth  for  me  to  sit  down  before  at  night, 
a  wall  to  keep  the  wind  away.  What  was  it 
you  said  once  about  a  man  and  woman  be- 
coming one  ?  You  have  been  my  very  body 
to  me,  Harboro;  and  any  other  could  only 
have  been  a  friendly  wind  to  stir  me  for  a 
moment  and  then  pass  on." 

Harboro's  face  darkened.  "I  was  the 
favorite  lover,"  he  said. 

"You  won't  understand,"  she  said  despair- 
ingly. And  then  as  he  arose  and  turned 
toward  the  door  again  she  went  to  him  ab- 
jectly, appealingly.  "Harboro!"  she  cried, 
"I  know  I  haven't  explained  it  right,  but  I 


SYLVIA  289 

want  you  to  believe  me !  It  is  you  I  love, 
really;  it  is  you  I  am  grateful  to  and  proud 
of.  You're  everything  to  me  that  you've 
thought  of  being.  I  couldn't  live  without 
you!"  She  sank  to  her  knees  and  covered 
her  eyes  with  one  hand  while  with  the  other 
she  reached  out  to  him:  "Harboro!"  Her 
face  was  wet  with  tears,  now;  her  body  was 
shaken  with  sobs. 

He  looked  down  at  her  for  an  instant,  his 
brows  furrowed,  his  eyes  filled  with  horror. 
He  drew  farther  away,  so  that  she  could 
not  touch  him.  "Great  God!"  he  cried  at 
last,  and  then  she  knew  that  he  had  gone, 
closing  the  door  sharply  after  him. 

She  did  not  try  to  call  him  back.  Some 
stoic  quality  in  her  stayed  her.  It  would 
be  useless  to  call  him;  it  would  only  tear 
her  own  wounds  wider  open,  it  would  dis- 
tress him  without  moving  him  otherwise. 
It  would  alarm  old  Antonia. 

If  he  willed  to  come  back,  he  would  come 
of  his  own  accord.  If  he  could  reconcile 
the  things  she  had  done  with  any  hope  of 
future  happiness  he  would  come  back  to  her 
again. 


290  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

But  she  scarcely  hoped  for  his  return. 
She  had  always  had  a  vague  comprehension 
of  those  pragmatic  quaHties  in  his  nature 
which  placed  him  miles  above  her,  or  be- 
neath her,  or  beyond  her.  She  had  drunk  of 
the  cup  which  had  been  offered  her,  and  she 
must  not  rebel  because  a  bitter  sediment 
lay  on  her  lips.  She  had  always  faintly 
realized  that  the  hours  she  spent  with  Run- 
yon  might  some  day  have  to  be  paid  for  in 
loneliness  and  despair. 

Yet  now  that  Harboro  was  gone  she  stood 
at  the  closed  door  and  stared  at  it  as  if  it 
could  never  open  again  save  to  permit  her 
to  pass  out  upon  ways  of  darkness.  She 
leaned  against  it  and  laid  her  face  against 
her  arm  and  wept  softly.  And  then  she 
turned  away  and  knelt  by  the  chair  he  had 
occupied  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

She  knew  he  would  no  longer  be  visible 
when  she  went  to  the  window.  She  had 
spared  herself  the  sight  of  him  on  his  way 
out  of  her  life.  But  now  she  took  her  place 
and  began,  with  subconscious  hope,  the  long 
vigil  she  was  to  keep.  She  stared  out  on  the 
road  over  which  he  had  passed.     If  he  came 


SYLVIA  291 

back  he  would  be  visible  from  this  place  by 
the  window. 

Hours  passed  and  her  face  became  blank, 
as  the  desert  became  blank.  The  light 
seemed  to  die  everywhere.  The  little  home 
beacons  abroad  in  the  desert  were  blotted 
out  one  by  one.  Eagle  Pass  became  a  ghostly 
group  of  houses  from  which  the  last  vestiges 
of  life  vanished.  She  became  stiff  and  inert 
as  she  sat  in  her  place  with  her  eyes  held 
dully  on  the  road.  Once  she  dozed  lightly, 
to  awaken  with  an  intensified  sense  of  tragedy. 
Had  Harboro  returned  during  that  brief  in- 
terval of  unconsciousness  ?  She  knew  he 
had  not.  But  until  the  dawn  came  she  sat 
by  her  place,  steadfastly  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

When  Harboro  went  down  the  stairs  and 
out  of  the  house  he  had  a  purposeful  air 
which  vanished  as  soon  as  his  feet  were  set 
on  the  highway.  Where  was  he  going? 
Where  could  he  go  ?  That  beginning  he  had 
made  usually  ended  in  the  offices  across  the 
river.  But  he  could  not  go  to  his  office  now. 
There  was  nothing  there  for  him  to  do. 
And  even  if  he  were  able  to  get  in,  and  to 
find  some  unfinished  task  to  which  he  could 
turn,  his  problem  would  not  be  solved.  He 
could  not  go  on  working  always.  A  man 
must  have  some  interests  other  than  his 
work. 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  set  off  down 
the  road.  He  realized  that  his  appearance 
must  be  such  that  he  would  attract  atten- 
tion and  occasion  comment.  The  founda- 
tions of  his  pride  stiffened,  as  they  had  al- 
ways done  when  he  was  required  to  face 
extraordinary  difficulties.    He  must  not  allow 

casual    passers-by    to    perceive    that    things 

292 


SYLVIA  293 

were  not  right  with  him.  They  would  know 
that  he  and  Sylvia  were  having  difficulties. 
Doubtless  they  had  been  expecting  some- 
thing of  the  sort  from  the  beginning. 

He  seemed  quite  himself  but  for  a  marked 
self-concentration  as  he  walked  through  the 
town.  Dunwoodie,  emerging  from  the  Mav- 
erick bar,  hailed  him  as  he  passed.  He  did 
not  hear — or  he  was  not  immediately  con- 
scious of  hearing.  But  half  a  dozen  steps 
farther  on  he  checked  himself.  Some  one 
had  spoken  to  him.  He  turned  around. 
"Ah,  Dunwoodie — ^good  evening!"  he  said. 
But  he  did  not  go  back,  and  Dunwoodie 
looked  after  him  meditatively  and  then  went 
back  into  the  bar,  shaking  his  head.  He 
had  always  meant  to  make  a  friend  of  Har- 
boro,  but  the  thing  evidently  was  not  to  be 
done. 

Harboro  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  he  crossed  the  river.  If  he  en- 
countered any  one  whom  he  knew — or  any 
one  at  all — he  passed  without  noticing.  And 
this  realization  troubled  him.  The  customs 
guard,  who  was  an  old  acquaintance,  must 
have  been  in  his  place  on  the    bridge.     He 


294  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

tried  to  arouse  himself  anew.  Surely  his  con- 
duct must  seem  strange  to  those  who  chanced 
to  observe  him. 

With  an  air  of  briskness  he  went  into  the 
Internacional  dining-room.  He  had  had 
nothing  to  eat  all  day.  He  would  order 
supper  and  then  he  would  feel  more  like 
himself.  He  did  not  realize  what  it  was  that 
made  his  situation  seem  like  a  period  of 
suspense,  which  kept  in  his  mind  the  sub- 
conscious thought  that  he  would  come  out 
of  the  dark  into  a  clearing  if  he  persevered. 

The  fact  was  that  something  of  what 
Sylvia  had  said  to  him  had  touched  his  con- 
science, if  it  had  not  affected  his  sense  of 
logic.  She  really  could  not  be  quite  what 
she  seemed  to  be — that  was  the  unshaped 
thought  in  the  back  of  his  brain.  There 
were  explanations  to  make  which  had  not  yet 
been  made.  If  he  told  himself  that  he  had 
solved  the  problem  by  leaving  the  house, 
he  knew  in  reality  that  he  had  not  done  so. 
He  was  benumbed,  bewildered.  He  must 
get  back  his  reasoning  faculties,  and  then  he 
would  see  more  clearly,  both  as  to  what  had 
been  done  and  what  he  must  set  about  doing. 


SYLVIA  295 

He  had  an  idea  that  he  could  now  under- 
stand the  sensations  of  people  who  had  in- 
dulged too  freely  in  some  sort  of  drug.  He 
had  temporarily  lost  the  power  to  feel.  Here 
was  Sylvia,  a  self-confessed  wanton — and 
yet  here  was  Sylvia  as  deeply  intrenched  in 
his  heart  as  ever.  This  was  a  monstrous 
contradiction.  One  of  these  things  must 
be  a  fact,  the  other  a  fantastic  hallucination. 

The  waiter  brought  food  which  he  looked 
at  with  distaste.  It  was  a  typical  frontier 
meal — stereotyped,  uninviting.  There  were 
meat  and  eggs  and  coffee,  and  various  heavy 
little  dishes  containing  dabs  of  things  which 
were  never  eaten.  He  drank  the  coffee  and 
realized  that  he  had  been  almost  perishing 
from  thirst.  He  called  for  a  second  cup; 
and  then  he  tried  to  eat  the  meat  and  eggs; 
but  they  were  like  dust — it  seemed  they 
might  choke  him.  He  tried  the  grapes  which 
had  got  hidden  under  the  cruet,  and  the 
acid  of  these  pleased  him  for  an  instant, 
but  the  pulp  was  tasteless,  unpalatable. 

He  finished  the  second  cup  of  coffee  and 
sat  listlessly  regarding  the  things  he  had  not 
touched.     He  had  hoped  he  might  prolong 


296  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  supper  hour,  since  he  could  think  of 
nothing  else  to  engage  his  attention.  But 
he  was  through,  and  he  had  consumed  only 
a  few  minutes. 

His  glance  wandered  to  a  railroad  poster 
in  the  dining-room,  and  this  interested  him 
for  an  instant.  Attractive  names  caught 
his  eye:  Torreon,  Tampico,  Vera  Cruz,  the 
City,  Durango.  They  were  all  waiting  for 
him,  the  old  towns.  There  was  the  old  work 
to  be  done,  the  old  life  to  resume.  .  .  .  Yes, 
but  there  was  Sylvia.  Sylvia,  who  had  said 
with  the  intentness  of  a  child,  ''I  love  you," 
and  again,  "I  love  you.''  She  did  not  want 
Runyon.  She  wanted  him,  Harboro.  And 
he  wanted  her — ^good  God,  how  he  wanted 
her!  Had  he  been  mad  to  wander  away 
from  her  ?  His  problem  lay  with  her,  not 
elsewhere. 

And  then  he  jerked  his  head  in  denial  of 
that  conclusion.  No,  he  did  not  want  her. 
She  had  laid  a  path  of  pitch  for  his  feet, 
and  the  things  he  might  have  grasped  with 
his  hands,  to  draw  himself  out  of  the  path 
which  befouled  his  feet — they  too  were 
smeared  with  pitch.     She  did  not  love  him, 


SYLVIA  297 

certainly.  He  clung  tenaciously  to  that 
one  clear  point.  There  lay  the  whole  situa- 
tion, perfectly  plain.  She  did  not  love  him. 
She  had  betrayed  him,  had  turned  the  face 
of  the  whole  community  against  him,  had 
permitted  him  to  affront  the  gentle  people 
who  had  unselfishly  aided  him  and  given 
him  their  affection. 

He  wandered  about  the  streets  until  nearly 
midnight,  and  then  he  engaged  a  room  in 
the  Internacional  and  assured  himself  that 
it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  He  needed  a  good 
rest.    To-morrow  he  would  know  what  to  do. 

But  the  sight  of  the  room  assigned  to  him 
surprised  him  in  some  odd  way — as  if  every 
article  of  furniture  in  it  were  mocking  him.  It 
was  not  a  room  really  to  be  used,  he  thought. 
At  least,  it  was  not  a  room  for  him  to  use. 
He  did  not  belong  in  that  bed;  he  had  a 
bed  of  his  own,  in  the  house  he  had  built 
on  the  Quemado  Road.  And  then  he  re- 
membered the  time  when  he  had  been  able 
to  hang  his  hat  anywhere  and  consider  him- 
self at  home,  and  how  he  had  always  been 
grateful  for  a  comfortable  bed,  no  matter 
where.    That  was  the  feeling  which  he  must 


298  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

get  back  again.  He  must  get  used  to  the 
strangeness  of  things,  so  that  such  a  room 
as  this  would  seem  his  natural  resting-place, 
and  that  other  house  which  had  been  de- 
stroyed for  him  would  seem  a  place  of  shame, 
to  be  avoided  and  forgotten. 

He  slept  fitfully.  The  movements  of  trains 
in  the  night  comforted  him  in  a  mournful 
fashion.  They  reminded  him  of  that  other 
life,  which  might  be  his  again.  But  even  in 
his  waking  moments  he  reached  out  to  the 
space  beside  him  to  find  Sylvia,  and  the  re- 
turning full  realization  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened brought  a  groan  to  his  throat. 

He  dressed  in  the  morning  with  a  feeling 
of  guilt,  mingled  with  a  sense  of  relief.  He 
had  slept  where  he  had  had  no  business  to 
sleep.  He  had  been  idle  at  a  time  when  he 
should  have  been  active.  He  had  done 
nothing,  and  there  was  much  to  be  done. 
He  had  not  even  rested. 

He  put  on  an  air  of  briskness,  as  one  will 
don  a  garment,  as  he  ordered  coffee  and  rolls 
in  the  dining-room.  There  were  things  to 
be  attended  to.  He  must  go  over  to  the 
offices   and   write   out   his   resignation.      He 


SYLVIA  299 

must  see  the  General  Manager  and  ask 
him  for  work  on  the  road  elsewhere.  He 
must  transfer  his  holdings — his  house  and 
bank-account — to  Sylvia.  He  had  no  need 
of  house  or  money,  and  she  would  need  them 
badly  now.  And  then  .  .  .  then  he  must 
begin  life  anew. 

It  was  all  plain;  yet  his  feet  refused  to 
bear  him  in  the  direction  of  the  railroad 
offices;  his  mind  refused  to  grapple  with 
the  details  of  the  task  of  transferring  to 
Sylvia  the  things  he  owned.  Something  con- 
structive, static,  in  the  man's  nature  stayed 
him. 

He  wandered  away  from  the  town  during 
the  day,  an  aimless  impulse  carrying  him 
quite  out  into  the  desert.  He  paused  to  in- 
spect little  irrigated  spots  where  humble 
gardens  grew.  He  paused  at  mean  adobe 
huts  and  talked  to  old  people  and  to  chil- 
dren. Again  and  again  he  came  Into  con- 
tact with  conditions  which  annoyed  and  be- 
wildered him.  People  were  all  bearing  their 
crosses.  Some  were  hopelessly  ill,  waiting 
for  death  to  relieve  them,  or  they  were  old 
and   quite   useless.     And   all   were   horribly 


300  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

poor,  casting  about  for  meagre  food  and 
simple  clothing  which  seemed  beyond  their 
reach.  They  were  lonely,  overburdened,  de- 
spondent, darkly  philosophical. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  human  life,  he 
wondered  I  Were  men  and  women  created 
to  suffer,  to  bear  crosses  which  were  not  of 
their  own  making,  to  suffer  injustices  which 
seemed  pointless  ?  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  was  back  in 
Piedras  Negras  again.  He  had  eaten  nothing 
save  a  handful  of  figs  which  an  old  woman 
had  given  him,  together  with  a  bowl  of  goat's 
milk.  He  had  wished  to  pay  for  them,  but 
the  old  woman  had  shaken  her  head  and 
turned  away. 

He  encountered  a  tourist  in  clerical  garb — 
a  thin-chested  man  with  a  colorless  face, 
but  with  sad,  benevolent  eyes — sitting  in  the 
plaza  near  the  sinister  old  cuarteL  He  sat 
down  and  asked  abruptly  in  a  voice  strangely 
high-pitched  for  his  own: 

"Is  a  man  ever  justified  in  leaving  his 
wife.?" 

The  tourist  looked  startled;  but  he  was 
a  man  of  tact  and  wisdom,  evidently,  and  he 


SYLVIA  301 

quickly  adjusted  himself  to  what  was  plainly 
a  special  need,  an  extraordinary  condition. 
"Ah,  that's  a  very  old  question,"  he  replied 
gently.  "It's  been  asked  often,  and  there 
have  been  many  answers." 

"But  is  he?"  persisted  Harboro. 

"There  are  various  conditions.  If  a  man 
and  a  woman  do  not  love  each  other,  wouldn't 
it  seem  wiser  for  them  to  rectify  the  mistake 
they  had  made  in  marrying  ?  But  if  they 
love  each  other  ...  it  seems  to  me  quite  a 
simple  matter  then.  I  should  say  that  under 
no  circumstances  should  they  part." 

"But  if  the  wife  has  sinned  ?" 

"My  dear  man  .  .  .  sinned;  it's  a  dif- 
ficult word.  Let  us  try  to  define  it.  Let  us 
say  that  a  sin  is  an  act  deliberately  com- 
mitted with  the  primary  intention  of  inflict- 
ing an  injury  upon  some  one.  It  becomes  an 
ugly  matter.  Very  few  people  sin,  if  you 
accept  my  definition." 

Harboro  was  regarding  him  with  dark 
intentness. 

"The  trouble  is,"  resumed  the  other  man, 
"we  often  use  the  word  sin  when  we  mean 
only   a  weakness.     And   a  weakness   in   an 


302  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

individual  should  make  us  cleave  fast  to 
him,  so  that  he  may  not  be  wholly  lost.  I 
can't  think  of  anything  so  cruel  as  to  desert 
one  who  has  stumbled  through  weakness. 
The  desertion  would  be  the  real  sin.  Weak- 
nesses are  a  sort  of  illness — and  even  a  pigeon 
will  sit  beside  its  mate  and  mourn,  when  its 
mate  is  ill.  It  is  a  beautiful  lesson  in  fidelity. 
A  soldier  doesn't  desert  his  wounded  com- 
rade in  battle.  He  bears  him  to  safety — or 
both  perish  together.  And  by  such  deeds  is 
the  consciousness  of  God  established  in  us." 

"Wait!"  commanded  Harboro.  He 
clinched  his  fists.  A  phrase  had  clung  to 
him:  "He  bears  him  to  safety  or  both  perish 
together!" 

He  arose  from  the  seat  he  had  taken  and 
staggered  away  half  a  dozen  steps,  his  hands 
still  clinched.  Then,  as  if  remembering,  he 
turned  about  so  that  he  faced  the  man  who 
had  talked  to  him.  Beyond  loomed  the 
ancient  church  in  which  Sylvia  had  said  it 
would  seem  possible  to  find  God.  Was  He 
there  in  reality,  and  was  this  one  of  His  an- 
gels, strayed  a  little  distance  from  His  side  ? 
It  was  not  the  world's  wisdom  that  this  man 


SYLVIA  303 

spoke,  and  yet  how  eternally  true  his  words 
had  been !  A  flock  of  pigeons  flew  over  the 
plaza  and  disappeared  in  the  western  glow 
where  the  sun  was  setting.  "Even  a  pigeon 
will  sit  by  its  mate  and  mourn  .  .  ." 

Harboro  gazed  at  the  man  on  the  bench. 
His  face  moved  strangely,  as  a  dark  pool 
will  stir  from  the  action  of  an  undercurrent. 
He  could  not  speak  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  called  back  in  a  voice  like  a  cry:  "I  thank 
you/' 

"You  are  welcome — brother!"  was  the  re- 
sponse. The  man  on  the  bench  was  smiling. 
He  coughed  a  little,  and  wondered  if  the 
open-air  treatment  the  physician  had  pre- 
scribed might  not  prove  a  bit  heroic.  When 
he  looked  about  him  again  his  late  com- 
panion was  gone. 

Harboro  was  hurrying  down  toward  the 
Rio  Grande  bridge.  He  was  trying  to  put 
a  curb  on  his  emotions,  on  his  movements. 
It  would  never  do  for  him  to  hurry  through 
the  streets  of  Eagle  Pass  like  a  madman. 
He  must  walk  circumspectly. 

He  was  planning  for  the  future.  He  would 
take  Sylvia  away — anywhere.     They  would 


304  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

begin  their  married  life  anew.  He  would 
take  her  beyond  the  ordinary  temptations. 
They  would  live  in  a  tent,  an  igloo,  in  the 
face  of  a  cliff.  He  would  take  her  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  old  evil  influences,  where 
he  could  guide  her  back  to  the  paths  she  had 
lost.  He  would  search  out  some  place  where 
there  was  never  a  dun  horse  with  golden 
dapples,  and  a  rider  who  carried  himself 
like  a  crier  of  God,  carrying  glad  tidings 
across  the  world. 

Yet  he  was  never  conscious  of  the  manner 
In  which  he  made  that  trying  journey.  He 
was  recalled  to  self  when  he  reached  his 
own  door.  He  realized  that  he  was  some- 
what out  of  breath.  The  night  had  fallen 
and  the  house  revealed  but  little  light  from 
the  front.  Through  the  door  he  could  see 
that  the  dining-room  was  lighted.  He  tried 
the  door  stealthily  and  entered  with  cau- 
tion.    It  would  not  do  to  startle  Sylvia. 

Ah — that  was  her  voice  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  telephone  bell  had  sounded, 
just  as  he  opened  the  door,  and  she  was 
responding  to  the  call. 

Her  voice  seemed  cold  at  first:    "I  didn't 


SYLVIA  305 

catch  the  name."  And  then  it  turned  to 
a  caress:  "Oh,  Mendoza — I  didn't  hear  at 
first.  Of  course,  I  want  to  see  you."  There 
was  now  a  note  of  perplexity  in  her  tone, 
and  then:  "No,  don't  come  here.  It  would 
be  better  for  me  to  see  you  at  my  father's. 
In  the  afternoon." 

Harboro  found  himself  leaning  against  the 
wallj  his  head  in  his  hands.  Mendoza !  The 
town's  notorious  philanderer,  who  had  re- 
garded Sylvia  with  insolent  eyes  that  night 
out  at  the  Quemado!  Yes,  and  she  had 
danced  with  him  the  minute  his  back  was 
turned;  danced  with  him  with  unconcealed 
joy.    Mendoza  .  .  . 

He  climbed  the  stairs  slowly.  He  heard 
Sylvia's  footsteps  as  she  moved  away;  into 
the  kitchen,  probably.  He  climbed  stealthily, 
like  a  thief.  He  mustn't  permit  Sylvia  to 
hear  him.    He  couldn't  see  her  now. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Sylvia  had  spent  the  entire  day  by  her 
window,  looking  down  the  road.  She  had  re- 
fused the  food  that  old  Antonia  had  brought, 
and  the  comforting  words  that  came  with  it. 
Something  that  was  not  a  part  of  herself 
argued  with  her  that  Harboro  would  come 
back,  though  all  that  she  was  by  training 
and  experiences  warned  her  that  she  must 
not  look  for  him. 

At  nightfall  she  turned  wearily  when  An- 
tonia tapped  at  her  door. 

^'Nina!''  The  troubled  old  woman  held 
out  a  beseeching  hand.  "You  must  have 
food.  I  have  prepared  it  for  you,  again. 
There  are  very  good  eggs,  and  a  glass  of 
milk,  and  coffee — coffee  with  a  flavor  !  Come, 
there  will  be  another  day,  and  another. 
Sorrows  pass  in  the  good  God's  time;  and 
even  a  blind  sheep  will  find  its  blade  of 
grass."    Her  hand  was  still  extended. 

Sylvia  went  to  her  and  kissed  her  withered 

cheek.     "I  will  try,"  she  said  with  docility. 

306 


SYLVIA  307 

And  they  went  down  the  stairs  as  if  they 
were  four;  the  young  woman  walking  with 
Despair,  the  old  woman  moving  side  by  side 
with  Knowledge. 

It  was  then  that  the  telephone  rang  and 
Sylvia  went  to  the  instrument  and  took 
down  the  receiver  with  trembling  fingers. 
If  it  were  only  Harboro!  .  .  .  But  it  was 
a  woman's  voice,  and  the  hope  within  her 
died.  She  could  scarcely  attend,  after  she 
realized  that  it  was  a  woman  who  spoke  to 
her.  The  name  "Mrs.  Mendoza"  meant 
nothing  to  her  for  an  instant.  And  then 
she  aroused  herself.  She  must  not  be  un- 
gracious. "Oh,  Mendoza,"  she  said;  "I 
didn't  hear  at  first."  She  felt  as  if  a  breath 
of  cold  air  had  enveloped  her,  but  she  shook 
off  the  conviction.  From  habit  she  spoke 
cordially;  with  gratitude  to  the  one  woman 
in  Eagle  Pass  who  had  befriended  her  she 
spoke  with  tenderness.  The  wife  of  Jesus 
Mendoza  wanted  to  call  on  her. 

But  Sylvia  had  planned  the  one  great 
event  of  her  life,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that 
she  ought  not  to  permit  this  unfortunate 
woman  to  come  to  the  house  on  the  morrow. 


3o8  CHILDREN  OF  THE   DESERT 

It  would  be  an  unforgivable  cruelty.  And 
then  she  thought  of  her  father's  house,  and 
suggested  that  her  visitor  come  to  see  her 
there. 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  listlessly  and 
went  into  the  kitchen,  where  Antonia  was 
eagerly  getting  a  meal  ready  for  her.  She 
looked  at  these  affectionate  preparations  in- 
dulgently, as  she  might  have  looked  at  a 
child  who  assured  her  that  a  wholly  imaginary 
thing  was  a  real  thing. 

She  ate  dutifully,  and  then  she  took  a 
bit  of  husk  from  Antonia's  store  and  made 
a  cigarette.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
smoked  since  her  marriage.  "He's  not  com- 
ing back,"  she  said  in  a  voice  like  that  of 
a  helpless  old  woman.  She  leaned  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  smoked.  Her  attitude  did 
not  suggest  grief,  but  rather  a  leave-taking. 

Then  with  returning  briskness  she  got  up 
and  found  street  apparel  and  left  the  house. 

She  went  down  into  the  town  almost 
gayly — like  the  Sylvia  of  old.  In  the  drug- 
store she  told  an  exciting  little  story  to  the 
clerk.  There  had  been  a  nest  of  scorpions 
.  .  .  would  he  believe  it  ?     In  the  kitchen ! 


SYLVIA  309 

She  had  been  given  such  a  start  when  the 
servant  had  found  them.  The  servant  had 
screamed;  quite  naturally,  too.  She  had 
been  told  that  a  weak  solution,  sprinkled 
on  the  floor,  would  drive  them  away.  What 
was  it  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  it.  She  had 
forgotten. 

She  received  the  small  phial  and  paid  the 
price  with  fingers  which  were  perfectly  firm. 
And  then  she  started  back  up  the  hill. 

Under  a  street  light  she  became  aware 
that  she  was  being  followed.  She  turned 
with  a  start.  It  was  only  a  dog — a  forlorn 
little  beast  which  stopped  when  she  stopped, 
and  regarded  her  with  soft,  troubled  eyes.    ' 

She  stooped  and  smoothed  the  creature's 
head.  "You  mustn't  follow,"  she  said  in 
a  voice  like  hidden  water.  "I  haven't  any 
place  to  take  you — nowhere  at  all!"  She 
went  on  up  the  hill.  Once  she  turned  and 
observed  that  the  lost  dog  stood  where  she 
had  left  him,  still  imploring  her  for  friend- 
ship. 

At  her  door  she  paused  and  turned.  She 
leaned  against  the  door-post  in  a  wistful 
attitude.     A  hundred  lonely,  isolated  lights 


3IO  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

were  burning  across  the  desert,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach.  They  were  little  lights 
which  might  have  meant  nothing  at  all  to 
a  happier  observer;  but  to  Sylvia  they  told 
the  story  of  men  and  women  who  had  joined 
hands  to  fight  the  battle  of  life;  of  the  sweet, 
humble  activities  which  keep  the  home  in- 
tact— the  sweeping  of  the  hearth,  the  mend- 
ing of  the  fire,  the  expectant  glance  at  the 
clock,  the  sound  of  a  foot-fall  drawing  near. 
There  lay  the  desert,  stretching  away  to  the 
Sierra  Madre,  a  lonely  waste;  but  it  was  a 
paradise  to  those  who  tended  their  lights 
faithfully  and  waited  with  assurance  for 
those  who  were  away. 

.  .  .  She  turned  and  entered  her  house 
stealthily. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  paused  in 
indecision.  Antonia  had  not  heard  her  enter. 
(She  did  not  know  that  the  old  woman  was 
standing  in  the  kitchen  under  the  picture  of 
the  Virgin,  with  her  hands  across  her  eyes 
like  a  bandage.)  The  lovely  boudoir  called 
to  her,  but  she  would  not  enter  it. 

"I  will  go  into  the  guest-chamber,"  she 
said;     "that    is    the    room    set    apart    for 


SYLVIA  311 

strangers.  I  think  I  must  always  have  been 
a  stranger  here." 

She  opened  the  door  quietly. 

A  pungent  odor  of  smoke  filled  her  nos- 
trils. She  groped  for  the  light  and  turned 
it  on. 

Through  little  horizontal  wisps  of  smoke 
she  saw  Harboro  lying  across  the  bed,  his 
great  chest  standing  high,  his  muscular  throat 
exposed  to  the  light,  a  glint  of  teeth  showing 
under  the  sweeping  black  mustache.  His 
eyes,  nearly  closed,  seemed  to  harbor  an 
eager  light — as  if  he  had  travelled  along  a 
dark  path  and  saw  at  last  a  beacon  on  a 
distant  hilltop.  A  pistol  was  still  clasped 
in  his  dead  hand. 

The  unopened  phial  Sylvia  carried  slipped 
to  the  floor.  She  clutched  at  her  lips  with 
both  hands,  to  suppress  the  scream  that 
arose  within  her. 

He  had  no  right  to  lie  so,  in  this  room. 
That  was  her  thought.  He  had  taken  the 
place  she  had  chosen  for  her  own. 

And  then  she  thought  of  Harboro  as  a 
stranger,  too.  Had  she  ever  known  him, 
really .?  ^ 


312  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

Her  first  thought  recurred.  It  should 
have  been  her  right  to  lie  here  in  the  guest- 
chamber,  not  Harboro's. 

And  yet,  and  yet  .  .  . 

The  End 


YB  67019 


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